


The Adventure of the Meddling Mummy

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF Mummy Holmes, Choose Your Own Adventure, Choose Your Own Ending, Double Dating, Grindr, M/M, Mother-Son Relationship, Online Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-08-29
Packaged: 2018-11-28 21:01:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 40,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mummy Holmes has decided to be proactive in making her sons happy. First stop: Grindr.A chose your own adventure story. NOW COMPLETE.





	1. Mummy discovers Grindr

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyTuesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyTuesday/gifts).



> Oooh, LadyTuesday, you have a lot to answer for. This came tumbling out after reading [this](https://au.pinterest.com/pin/223139356519614157/). There will be more, I promise, but I wanted to get this out there.  
> DamaSedalar has beta'd some of this in a ridiculously short time - bless you!  
> Some (most, really) is unbeta'd because I am too impatient not to post right away. :)
> 
> UPDATE: This is now a choose your own adventure story! I strongly suggest you display this chapter by chapter so you don't get the spoiler of the next chapter displaying automatically. There's a link at the bottom of each chapter so it will take you directly along the path you've chosen. Enjoy!  
> UPDATE #2: NOW COMPLETE!

Sherlock blinked at his phone then groaned to himself. “Mummy’s drunk again.” He muttered, fingers firmly typing the response.

_MOM. NO._

The response came quickly.

_I want to see my son happy._

Before he could reply ( _I have the work, that is enough_ ), another message came through, then another.

_What is a power top?_

_And last time I checked we were still under British rule. I am Mummy, NOT Mom._

Sherlock threw his phone across the room, covering his face as he flopped back onto the couch. He drew his fingers down his cheeks, bringing his palms together below his chin, hoping to escape into his mind palace. Despite closing his eyes, he was unable to escape, however; his phone continued to ping messages from under the far chair. With another groan, Sherlock stood to retrieve it, stepping on the coffee table harder than necessary in his frustration. As he scowled at the stream of links his mother had sent, presumably to her future sons-in-law, Sherlock wondered how much worse his day could get. The answer came immediately.

“Hello, brother.” Mycroft’s drawl from the doorway surprised Sherlock, he’d been so busy deciding how best to deter him mother from this hideous venture. His startled jump was minimal, but the smirk on Mycroft’s face made it clear it had been noted.

“What do you want, Mycroft?” Sherlock asked shortly, finger poised to delete his mother’s messages. As Mycroft started blathering about something, a wonderful idea came to him, and he changed his mind, tapping out a reply sure to make his mother squeal in delight.

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock waved away whatever it was that Mycroft was talking about. Boring. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Of all the things he could have asked, this was obviously not on Mycroft’s radar. “I beg your pardon?” his brother asked stiffly.

“Seeing anyone, Mycroft. Do you have a personal relationship with anyone that extends further than them bringing your sizable lunch, or having people killed for you.” Though it was theoretically a question, Sherlock’s flat tone made it sound more like a statement. He couldn’t resist getting in the little jab about Mycroft’s waistline, either. Right on cue, one hand fluttered to his tummy, and Sherlock raised an eyebrow, delighted his brother was so flustered to give away his inner thoughts.

“Of course not,” Mycroft snapped. “I am far too busy for such trifles.”

“Come on,” Sherlock sneered, “You’ve always time for trifle, Mycroft.”

The withering glance from the elder brother was not enough to deter the younger.

“I would brace for some messages from Mu…ah right on time.”

Mycroft’s phone had sounded once, then again and again. Sherlock’s mouth spread in a grin as Mycroft frowned, then looked increasingly alarmed.

“What did you do, Sherlock?” He asked, aiming for threatening but sounding more alarmed than anything.

“Mummy has signed me up for a horrendous dating site called ‘Grindr’.” Sherlock explained. “I simply pointed out that I am not the only unattached son of hers, and I believe she took my suggestion to heart immediately.” He felt the smug satisfaction only came from getting one up on Mycroft.

Mycroft looked exasperated and crossed the room to his brother, turning his phone so Sherlock could see. He looked down, focussing on the stream of messages Mummy had sent to Mycroft.

_Sweetheart, I can’t bear for you to be alone. I’ve downloaded Grindr so we can find you a man._

_I’m looking for Sherlock, too._

_Would you consider yourself a top, a bottom or a switch?_

_I need to know, it’s an important part of your identity._

_Don’t be shy, Mycroft, I’m your Mother._

_Link:1 image_

_Link:1 image_

_Link:1 image_

“Congratulations, welcome to the club.” Sherlock told him, not bothering to scroll down. Without speaking, Mycroft did just that, showing Sherlock the last of the messages. As he read, Sherlock froze, dread pooling in his stomach.

_You and Sherlock should double date! I’ve sent messages to some of the most suitable matches. They’ll be in touch, I’m sure._

Sherlock’s horrified eyes met Mycroft’s. “Double date?” He whispered.

“Thank you so much for this, Sherlock,” Mycroft said, sarcasm dripping off every syllable. “How on earth am I supposed to turn Mummy’s head from this now?”

Sherlock blinked, allowing Mycroft to take his phone back. His brain was working overtime, and he imagined from the silence that Mycroft was bending his own considerable intellect to the same problem. After a few moments of silence, the brothers looked at each other again.

“There’s no way out of it, is there?” Sherlock asked. Damn it. He’d been hoping he could fob Mummy off, allowing her to focus on her elder son while he was unforgivably rude and crass to anyone she suggested; now it seemed that wouldn’t work. Mycroft would never let him escape while he was entangled in this mess.

“What are you telling her?” Sherlock asked, watching as Mycroft sent a reply to their mother.

“I’m telling her that she should choose one match for each of us, with whom you and I will have dinner on Friday night at Indigo. I am also proposing that she make no more than one suggestion per month, to allow us to make a considered decision about each person.”

Sherlock turned away from his brother, pacing, while he thought about his brother’s proposal. It would mean they would be limiting their mother to 12 men per year; surely there were no more than that many eligible gay men in London of whom she would approve for each of her sons? The double date would also mean that she could not propose a man to Sherlock and then to Mycroft, or vice versa. The idea cheered Sherlock somewhat – it halved the pool, effectively. He shot a glance at Mycroft, who was frowning again, evidently scrolling through one of the profiles Mummy had sent him.

“Off you go, then.” Sherlock said abruptly to his brother.

Mycroft looked up, assessed Sherlock, who was now lying on the couch again. “Brother.” He walked out and down the stairs, Sherlock not fully relaxing until the exterior door had closed against the noise of the street. Overall, a win, he mused. Although he would have to go on this horrendous date, Mycroft would too, and he’d hate it more. Reaching into his pocket, Sherlock sent a message off to Mummy without looking.

_Mycroft’s terms are agreeable to me._

The reply was immediate.

_Of course they are, Sherlock._


	2. The First Grindr Date: A Disaster

Sherlock was restless, more restless than usual as he roamed around the flat, waiting for Mycroft to arrive so they could discuss their tactics for the evening, their second attempt at placating Mummy. He was clean, of course; risking the combined wrath of his brother and his landlady was not prudent, even for an addict. It had been months since he’d used, anyway, Mycroft’s classified puzzles having scratched that particular itch sufficiently to focus his mind.

The current problem, however, had no such simple solution. Apart from the opposition he held to dating in general, Sherlock had now done sufficient research on Grindr to know that it was less a dating site and more of a ‘hooking up’ site, to use the colloquialism. According to his research, their dates would be far more likely to expect sex than dinner. Therein lay most of the problem – neither he nor Mycroft were looking for so much as a casual acquaintance, let alone a sexual partner, and certainly not on a double date with his brother.

The first dates had been a disaster, particularly as it pre-dated Sherlock's Grindr research. Sherlock and Mycroft arranged to meet their dates at the restaurant, which was a mistake in itself. The men had shown up at the same time, both frowning and saying, “I thought this was meant to be a hotel?” Mycroft’s date, a tall, solid blond Adonis-type apparently attached to the Swedish embassy, had greeted Mycroft by squeezing his arse and licking his neck; Sherlock’s had been marginally better, the well-muscled, moustachioed Chemistry professor eyeing him lavisciously then whispering, “I’ll skip the entrée and just blow you in the men’s, if you want.” The brothers, eternally grateful they’d chosen a restaurant at which they knew nobody, bolted without a second glance, only Mycroft bothering to stutter some kind of apology. Echoing curses chased them up the street as they fled.

“Mummy is not going to be pleased.” Sherlock said shakily as their car drove them back towards Baker Street.

“Indeed.” Mycroft said. “Did you, er, realise that our, um, dates would expect such an arrangement?”

Sherlock shook his head. Why on earth had he not researched this ‘Grindr’ platform before he’d accepted Mummy’s suggestion? He hoped fervently that Mummy was equally ignorant.

“I will direct Mummy to be more straightforward with the next, er, person. People.” Mycroft stammered. It was a mark of both their shaken nerves that Mycroft’s speech had deteriorated so markedly, and that Sherlock did not tease him for it.

“Perhaps we would be better meeting somewhere more, er, relaxed?” Sherlock suggested doubtfully. “Still in public,” he hastened to add, “but a little less formal might put them at ease.”

Mycroft considered it, then nodded, pulling his phone out. Sherlock listened as he spoke to their mother.

“Good evening, Mummy.”

“No, we are not on our dates.”

“Yes, they were very attractive, thank you.” he took a deep breath, adding, “Unfortunately, they were under the impression that we were meeting at a hotel for an exclusively sexual encounter.” Mycroft’s voice did not waver as he uttered this sentence, but Sherlock could see his mortification in the closed eyes, red cheeks and forced swallow. He was quiet for a while, throwing a suffering glance at Sherlock, who could offer only a grimace of compatriotism in return.

“Yes, well Sherlock and I are prepared to make another attempt, Mummy…yes, thank you, however you will need to be clearer that we are not intending to exchange sexual favours at this time.” Mycroft’s eyes closed again as he forced the words, “Yes, Mummy, we will both seriously consider it in the future. I am aware that it is considered prudish to wait…yes, thank you. I will text you the location of our choice…yes. Good evening, Mummy.” He hung up, allowing his head to rest against the seat back for a moment as he gathered his strength back.

 “Do you really think it’s a good idea to attempt another date in this fashion?” Sherlock asked tentatively. He hoped that Mycroft would agree that Grindr and the Holmes’ men were not compatible, and they could put the whole ghastly experience behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You have to decide: Do Sherlock and Mycroft go on the next Grindr date?  
> If yes, go to [chapter 3](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25660362).  
> If no, go to [chapter 12](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25931613).
> 
> This story will be published in chunks (generally, all the chapters between one choice and the next at each given fork in the story). I strongly suggest subscribing so you know when the next chapters are published; when that happens, the links above will be active. Each chapter will be titled with the option (ie. Chapter 3: Sherlock and Mycroft say YES to Grindr; Chapter 12: Sherlock and Mycroft say NO to Grindr) so you can click straight to the chapter with the option you chose. Thank you for your patience as I write as fast as possible so you're not left hanging! <3


	3. Sherlock and Mycroft say YES to Grindr

Mycroft sighed. “I think it is the path of least resistance where Mummy is concerned, Sherlock.”

It had been Sherlock’s turn to sigh – his brother was right. And now here he was, pacing, restless as he waited for Mycroft to come by for him. They had agreed on a pub close to Baker Street for their date – a quiet-ish place that served good beer and passable food. Sherlock had no idea how Mycroft knew all that but frankly, he didn’t care. As long as he didn’t have to do the research, that was fine with him.

Mycroft was exactly on time, as Sherlock expected. They had half an hour before they would have to walk to the pub, just enough time for a strategy meeting.

“Mummy assures me that the men with whom she had been in contact understand that this meeting does not necessarily constitute an agreement to have sex.” Mycroft told Sherlock as they stood in the sitting room, both too keyed up to sit. Mycroft was dressed in a camel coloured tweed suit with a dark tie, so he’d gone home to change, Sherlock saw. Interesting. 

“These men believe they’ve been speaking to us?” Sherlock asked. 

Mycroft nodded. “It’s all drivel, of course, the usual ‘where shall we meet’ and defining boundaries. We were quite strict about that, actually.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow, then decided he didn’t even care what Mummy had written – his boundaries were clear and simple, so it didn’t even matter what the other man thought his boundaries were. Boring. This whole idea was  _ boring _ .

“Please don’t tell me we have to wear boutonnieres or some such nonsense in order to be identified?” Sherlock asked, the thought suddenly occurring to him.

Mycroft shook his head in alarm. “Good grief, no. They have our photos so we will simply have to wait for them to approach us.”

Sherlock nodded in understanding.

“I assume you have a plan?” Mycroft asked now. 

Sherlock acted aloof, but his heart was pounding a little at the unfamiliar scenario he was having to envision. “Of course. One drink – no alcohol – no food, no sex. Worst date ever, I hope, so I won’t be forced to do it again.” He smirked at Mycroft.

Mycroft looked unimpressed, dipping his chin and raising his eyebrows. “You do need to make some effort, Sherlock.”

“No I don’t.” he shot back defiantly.

“Yes, actually, you do.” Mycroft told him. “Mummy is not as foolish as you think. She will almost certainly contact these men after our date, especially if it is not a success. If yours tells her that you were an arrogant arse who wouldn’t even buy him a drink, it will all have been for nothing!” His voice appeared calm, but Sherlock could hear the tension underlying it.

He sighed. “Fine. But under no circumstances will there be sexual activity of any description. Understood?”

“Of course.” Mycroft agreed immediately.  _ At least we’re on the same page about that, _ Sherlock thought.

“Shall we go then?” Sherlock asked. Mycroft nodded, waiting as Sherlock tied his scarf and swirled his coat around himself, buttoning it as they trooped down the stairs.

The air was cold, their breath condensing in great clouds as they walked the few blocks.

“No car?” Sherlock asked, breaking the tense silence.

“I did not want to appear too well off.” Mycroft admitted. Sherlock snorted but said nothing.

They approached the pub, slowing in accord despite their silence.

“Once more into the breach?” Mycroft muttered, and a shot of adrenaline made Sherlock grin at his brother as he held the door open. 

“Age before beauty, brother mine.”

They stepped into the warmth of the bar, looking around the low dark room. It was full but not overly crowded. Sherlock was uncomfortable at such a disadvantage – they more or less had to stand in the doorway and wait to be approached. Scanning the bar, he saw several potential pairs of men, all of whom looked up as the door opened, admitting the Holmes brothers. There was the pair of musicians, ostensibly waiting for their set to begin but still interested in the new arrivals; the police officer – grey haired, probably a DI or DCI – and his friend the….Army doctor, short and blond; and the dark-skinned bald man, confident and bored looking, his friend equally self-assured as he lounged against the bar.

Just as Sherlock was about to turn to his brother, one pair detached themselves and made their way over to greet the brothers.

_ Here we go _ , Sherlock thought to himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You have to decide: Which pair are Sherlock and Mycroft’s dates?  
> If it’s the musicians, go to [chapter 4](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25688646).  
> If it’s the police officer and the Army doctor, go to [chapter 5](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25688676).  
> If it’s the confident pair at the bar, go to [chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25688778).


	4. The Musicians Are Their Dates

“Hey, you guy have got to be Sherlock and Mycroft, right?” the guitarist asked, grinning as he eyed Mycroft’s suit. “I’m Jack.”

“Good evening, Jack. Mycroft Holmes.” Mycroft replied, shaking his proffered hand.

His companion jerked his chin at Sherlock, chewing on his gum. “Yo, I’m Andy.”

“Sherlock.” Sherlock bit out. A quick sweep told him all he wanted to know – and more – about Andy. He felt his face set in distaste and fought to keep his expression neutral.

“Can we buy you a drink?” Mycroft offered, the tension in his jaw evident.

“Yeah, awesome.” Jack answered. The foursome sat at the table Jack and Andy had just vacated, beer and scotch within their reach.

Mycroft was the first to break the awkward silence. “So do you play here regularly?” he asked of Jack. 

The musician looked at Mycroft with wide eyes. “Dude, how did you know that?”

Slightly taken aback, Mycroft indicated the guitar case behind him, the pick tucked under Jack’s wristband and distinctive callouses on his fingers.

“Dude.” Andy’s tone was reverent. “That was, like, epic.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but shut it again at a warning glance from Mycroft. He smiled instead, a wide display of teeth without mirth. 

“So Andy, tell me why you thought we’d be a good match. On Grindr, I mean.” Sherlock asked in his ‘I’m being personable’ voice.

Andy blinked as he drank from his beer. “Dude, you’re a power top, right? Cause I’m into that.”

Sherlock swallowed. “Anything else?” he asked, his voice tight.

“Nah, man. Look, we’ve got half an hour ‘til we kick off, you wanna do this now or later? Gus lets us use the back room.” He jerked his chin at the barman, who waved a hand and winked at Sherlock with a grin that turned his stomach.

Sherlock exchanged a look at Mycroft, who cleared his throat and looked at Jack, who seemed completely unfussed by the conversation.

“Jack. Was there something on my profile that gave you the impression that we would be compatible?” Mycroft asked. His tone appeared to be congenial, but Sherlock heard the desperation as he grasped for the last thread of hope.

Jack yawned, tilting his head so he could scratch behind his ear. “Yeah, you’re a switch and you’re not into full on commitment. I’m all about freedom so that’s good for me.” He’d been distracted as he spoke, but now his eyes looked at Mycroft, only vaguely interested. “Like Andy said, we’ve got time now, unless you want to wait for the break between sets.”

There wasn’t much Sherlock had seen that rendered Mycroft speechless, but this was one of those moments.

“Thank you, we’ll decline.” Sherlock said briskly, one hand under his brother’s elbow. Mycroft moved automatically, Sherlock guiding him quickly and efficiently out the door.

"We'll just have to deal with Mummy." Sherlock said flatly as they strode towards Baker Street. "We are never doing that again.” 

Mycroft nodded. “Never.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not satisfied with this ending? Go back and make a different choice, see where that takes you.


	5. The DI & The Army Doctor Are Their Dates

“Hi, you must be Sherlock. I’m Greg Lestrade.” The silver haired detective spoke first, an easy grin on display as he offered his hand to Sherlock. 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock replied, shaking the man’s hand. He seemed comfortable and relaxed, a far cry from what Sherlock had expected. A quick sweep gave him enough information to be going on with, none of it more alarming than any of the other patrons of this bar.

“And this is John Watson, a mate of mine.” Greg introduced the Army doctor, who smiled on cue, though he was more uneasy than Greg. His eyes met Mycroft’s though, and Sherlock thought his discomfort was at the dating paradigm in general, rather than having to endure social niceties as a prelude to meaningless sex.

“What can I get you guys?” Greg offered as they returned to the booth he and John had been seated at.

“A Scotch would be most welcome, thank you Greg.” Mycroft replied.

“The same, thank you.” Sherlock agreed. Greg made his way over to the bar as the others sat.

“From your discomfort might I presume this was not your idea, John?” Mycroft asked, his tone confiding. 

John shot a look at his friend, waiting for service at the bar, and nodded. He rubbed his hands together nervously. “I’m a doctor, an Army doctor. Invalided out, though. Only been home a few weeks, then Greg decides I need to, um, well…” he trailed off, flushing fiercely, and Sherlock realised that he probably thought he and Mycroft (and possibly Greg) were here for sex and little more. 

A rare flash of sympathy shot through Sherlock. “My brother and I are here for much the same reason, though our humiliation will top even yours, John.” 

Greg returned at just that moment, grinning at Mycroft as he repeated, “Humiliation, eh? Are we talking kinks already, or what?” At the three horrified looks directed his way, Greg grimaced, raising one hand in apology. “Sorry, sorry. Shit. Look, cards on the table, I’m pretty nervous and I make terrible jokes at the worst times. I’m here because my colleagues reckon I need to get a leg over…what?” He asked, as Mycroft, Sherlock and John relaxed, John managing a chuckle. The brothers wore identical smirks.

“Sherlock was just about to share with John that we are here at the behest of our well-meaning mother.” Mycroft told Greg. John and Greg both stared for a moment before breaking into laughter. Sherlock saw his brother stiffen as he endured their mirth; he was sure his own spine had straightened too.

“Sorry, sorry,” John offered, wiping at his eyes. “God, I’m actually so happy to hear that. I thought I’d be the only sad bugger here hoping to escape without having to take my pants off.”

Even Mycroft and Sherlock smiled at that, and the ice, as it were, was broken. With the pressure significantly relieved, Mycroft engaged John in a conversation about his experiences overseas; Sherlock made an effort to listen and ask not-too intelligent questions about Greg’s work. His interest in forensic methodology married with Sherlock’s, and the conversation flowed easily enough. Despite this, Sherlock found himself more drawn to John. Greg was attractive enough, in a silver fox kind of way, but John’s honest, open face and dramatically blue eyes were far more intriguing to Sherlock. Glancing at his brother, he could tell immediately that despite his outward appearance of concentration on John, Mycroft was acutely aware of Greg’s position. His body language mirrored Greg’s far more closely than it did John’s, and Sherlock watched his breath hitch no less than three times when Greg ran a hand over his hair or stubbled chin. Definite attraction, only in the wrong direction, Sherlock thought. Interesting. John and Greg, both open and honest men, were behaving as Sherlock would expect on a first date; concentrating only on what was in front of them, ignoring the other brother.

Mycroft bought the second round, and as these drinks drew low, John stood, emptying his own glass.

“One more round, gents?” He asked. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his brother, who hesitated before nodding. The Scotch wasn’t completely terrible, Sherlock conceded, watching as John and Greg went to the bar to order.

“I assume they will take this opportunity to discuss their interpretation of our conversation so far.” Sherlock said to his brother quietly.

“Agreed.” Mycroft replied.

“While Greg is a mildly interesting conversationalist, I would prefer to be speaking with John.” Sherlock admitted, the Scotch and circumstances having loosened his tongue. At Mycroft’s disbelieving look, he snorted. “Yes, that statement was unusual for me. Am I wrong in thinking your interest lies more with Greg than John?” He leaned in, idly noting the symmetrical and pleasing shape of John’s buttocks as the doctor leaned against the bar. Mycroft did not answer Sherlock’s question, so the younger brother continued, “Having followed your conversation, I believe John’s caretaker instinct and need for adrenaline fuelled experiences would make him better suited as my partner. Equally, Greg’s knowledge of politics and tendency to work long and unsociable hours certainly complement your lifestyle more fully than mine.” Mycroft’s face had become shuttered, and Sherlock knew he was considering the idea, testing to see if Sherlock’s deductions aligned with his own observations.

Sherlock pressed on. “What do you say, should we suggest a switch of conversation at this point? It might be easily explained as a socially acceptable courtesy to speak with everyone in one’s social group.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You have to decide: Will Mycroft agree to swap conversation partners with Sherlock?  
> If NO, go to [chapter 7](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25688805).  
> If YES, go to [chapter 8](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25688850).


	6. The Confident Guys Are Their Dates

“Hi there.” No matter how he tried, Sherlock could not stop himself looking at the light bouncing off the clean shaven skull of the man in front of him. He was almost nauseatingly confident, the kind of man for whom ‘swagger’ was the defining term. 

“Good evening. My name is-”

“Mycroft Holmes, yes I know.” The man interrupted Mycroft, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows. His brother had practically populated a small town in northern Russia with people who had cut him off; what would he do in this situation?

A tight smile was the only indication of his displeasure. “You have me at a disadvantage, Mister…”

“Tompson, Vince Tompson.” He replied. Mycroft’s handshake was firm enough without being threatening, Sherlock observed; he was not looking to dominate this conversation, though it would be unlikely that Mycroft would be interested in someone as rude Vince. First impressions indeed.

“Sherlock Holmes.” He introduced himself to the other man, who’d been looking Sherlock up and down with a proprietorial look on his face.

“Andrew Schofield.” He replied, making little effort to contain the smirk that crossed his face.

“Shall we order-“ Mycroft started, before Vince cut him off once again.

“Yeah, we’ve had a couple of rounds. Met while we were waiting, realised we were both here waiting for you two. Brothers?” Vince said, a finger flicking back and forth between them.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, restraining himself from saying, “Obviously”. If Mycroft could be on best behaviour, so could he. For a little while, at least. 

They made their way to the bar, Vince and Andrew still holding their beers. When the bartender came over, Sherlock had barely opened his mouth before Vince order beers for all of them.

“I’d prefer a Scotch, actually.” Mycroft interjected, before the barman could turn away. Sherlock raised an eyebrow – Mycroft must have reached some sort of internal rudeness threshold, to refuse a drink offered by his date. Good for him.

“Me too.” Sherlock added, and the bartender turned away to fill their order.

“Not a beer man, then?” Vince asked, barely contained contempt in his voice.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, stepping slightly in front of his brother. Vince had drawn himself up, highlighting the difference between his solid build and Mycroft’s slight one. I think we know who might be a power top, Sherlock thought wryly to himself as he stood between his brother and Vince.

Vince shook his head, sharing a quick glance with Andrew, who suppressed a smirk of his own. At least he had the good grace to hide it in his beer, Sherlock thought, increasingly uncomfortable. 

“Here.” Andrew moved to break the tension, handing the brothers their drinks. Sherlock shot him a tight smile then threw back his Scotch, placing the empty glass on the bar.

“So Andrew, what made you think that you and I would be compatible?” Sherlock asked gamely. He might as well seek as much feedback as possible about the profile his mother had put together. At least the night wouldn’t be a total write off. What  _ had _ Mummy been thinking, Sherlock wondered absently.

In response to his question, Andrew shrugged. “I was pretty pissed, haven’t had a shag in ages, you’re hot.”

Sherlock blinked. “We did converse about my reluctance to engage in sexual activity tonight, didn’t we?” Perhaps Mummy had forgotten that part.

Andrew smiled an oily, confident smile that made Sherlock’s skin crawl. He leaned in close and spoke in a low voice intended to be inviting. “Yeah, well I can be a pretty convincing.” He said with a faux coyness that sat entirely wrong on his 30-something year old face.

“Really.” Sherlock replied. He dearly wanted to turn on his heel and leave, but the set of Mycroft’s face screamed, ‘don’t you dare.’ Plastering on a smile, Sherlock asked after Andrew’s job, quickly realising that he was very happy to talk about how great he was, at the job and generally in life. It was boring but easy, and Sherlock found himself almost mesmerised by the cadence of his words. He could see Mycroft-The-Diplomat in full swing, too; oddly enough, there seemed to be two of him, though. Sherlock blinked hard, eyelids feeling heavier by the second.

“Myyycccc…” He managed, tripping over his feet and toppling into his brother. His body wasn’t working, for some reason; arms and legs heavy, the effort of speaking too great. Sherlock was grateful his brother was present and had clearly hated the cheap Scotch; whatever Andrew had slipped into his drink would not be affecting Mycroft. He’d fallen to the floor now, and the noise around him had increased. Shouting, a scuffle; it was too much effort to keep his eyes open, so he allowed them to drift close. Someone was cradling his head; there was a crash somewhere behind him. Gentle hands turned him over, and he felt two fingers pressed into his neck, searching for a pulse. They were warm and rough but competent, Sherlock noted. Not an unpleasant sensation, all things considered.

“What’s his name?” A voice, clear and in command spoke near him but not too him; the angle was wrong. Soon after, the same voice sounded much closer, a calming tone added as it said, “Sherlock? Can you open your eyes for me? Sherlock.” The voice was convincing, so Sherlock mustered all his reserves to drag his eyelids up. His view, generally a bright blur, was blocked by a head; he blinked fuzzily a couple of times before it swam more or less into focus.

“Whhh…” was all he managed, and the face smiled soothingly at him.

“Hi Sherlock, my name’s John, I’m a doctor. You’re okay, we think you’ve been given some kind of sedative, but you’re safe now.” The face was….nice, Sherlock thought. Blondish hair (lots of shades there, a cross-indexed catalogue would not be inappropriate) and blue eyes with lovely crinkles bracketing them. Lovely? A part of Sherlock’s brain sniggered, but he mentally batted it away. They  _ were _ lovely, the rest of him insisted. John had waved a bright light at his eyes, apologised, and turned to speak to someone else. Exhausted by the effort of keeping his eyes open, Sherlock allowed them to drift closed again, John’s fingers now firm against his wrist, keeping track of his pulse.

“Your brother’s arranging a car, Sherlock. He won’t be long. My friend Greg’s dealing with your, um, date. He’s with Scotland Yard, Greg I mean, not your date.” John was talking to keep him from falling asleep, Sherlock thought dimly. He heard Mycroft’s voice now, and John’s answering tone.

“Normally I’d say he’ll be okay, but with his history of drug issues I’d really be a lot more comfortable if you called an ambulance, or at least a nurse to sit with him tonight.” Conscientious, Sherlock registered.

“I’ll have a nurse meet us at his flat,” Mycroft assured John. “He – the nurse – will help us get Sherlock settled. Thank you for your assistance, Doctor Watson, I am in you debt.”

“No trouble.” John replied. Sherlock wished he could see John’s face.

“Sherlock, we’re going to get you into the car, now.” John’s voice was close to his ear again; Sherlock felt some of his curls shift in the air disturbed by John’s breath. If he’d had the nervous ability he would have shivered, Sherlock thought.

+++

John’s breath on his hair and skin was the first thing Sherlock thought of when he woke the next morning. He was in his own bed, a tall solid man sitting in a chair in the corner, reading a Marvel comic.

“Good morning, Mr. Holmes.” The nurse-cum-bodyguard said, immediately setting his comic aside and walking over to Sherlock. He took Sherlock’s pulse, checked his pupils and blood pressure; evidently they were satisfactory because he allowed Sherlock to get up, albeit slowly, so he could attend to his transport.

After he’d relieved himself and washed his face, Sherlock made himself a very bad cup of coffee – no milk, no sugar, too much instant coffee. As he contemplated the sludge he’d just prepared, the nurse emerged, bag in hand.

“Your brother will be here shortly.”

Sherlock nodded, and the nurse let himself out, leaving Sherlock alone. His head felt odd still, slightly disconnected, and his body was slow; otherwise he was okay. Now to see Mycroft and find out what happened with Andrew and the other one. 

“Brother.” Mycroft announced himself a few moments later. Before Sherlock could speak, another figure entered, then another. The latter walked with a cane, Sherlock registered.

“Is there a party here that I don’t know about?” Sherlock asked, looking at the two other men. He frowned – they looked familiar. His slow brain took a moment, but it was the shades of blonde and grey that triggered the memory.

“John.” Sherlock breathed. “The Army doctor.”

John frowned. “How did you know I’m an Army doctor?” he asked, shifting his weight against the cane. Sherlock watched his fingers flex against the rubber top, and smiled to himself. His experience with John last night, though fuzzy and probably slightly inaccurate, had been…interesting. Worth exploring, even. He made himself acknowledge the other visitor.

“You must be Greg, the DI from Scotland Yard.” Sherlock addressed the silver haired man. “You took Andrew in. I hope he fell by accident several times on the way to the lockup.”

Greg blinked, an easy smile breaking on his tanned face. “Yeah, no. His name’s not actually Andrew, but he did make it to lockup in one piece. Sorry about that.”

Sherlock had listened to half of Greg’s reply before Mycroft’s glaring discomfort had caught his eye. Shifting weight, slight flush, gaze averted, then darting back to Greg’s face, no his mouth… Grinning, Sherlock raised one eyebrow at his brother, who met the pointed look and held it despite the deepening blush. He saw Greg eyeing them both for a moment before the shoe dropped for him too, and he started eyeing Mycroft with blatant interest.

“John, Greg, the coffee here is terrible.” Sherlock announced, swiftly (well not quite, he was still a bit unsteady) tipping his sludge down the sink. “Give me five minutes and Mycroft and I will take you both out for whatever meal we’re up to in thanks for your efforts last night.” He turned a charming smile to John, who looked gratifyingly pleased and bashful. Oh, this was going to be fun, Sherlock thought happily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You have to decide: What kind of ending do you want for this story?  
> If it’s fluffy, go to [chapter 9](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25904127).  
> If it’s romantic (fluffy and kissy), go to [chapter 10](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25904151).  
> If it’s smutty, go to [chapter 11](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/25904163).


	7. Sherlock And Mycroft Do Not Swap Partners

Mycroft spoke as John and Greg turned back to their booth, drinks in hand. “I believe that might be rude, brother, despite our desires. Let’s see what proposal John and Greg make at the end of the night, shall we?”

Given how little time he had before their dates returned, Sherlock had little choice but to acquiesce. Mycroft tactfully started a conversation that included all four men, allowing for cross conversation without the potentially embarrassing suggestion of Sherlock’s.

“So it’s just the two brothers, then?” Greg asked Mycroft.

“Indeed it is.” Mycroft answered, smiling across the booth.

“Wish I’d had a brother growing up.” John offered, grinning at Sherlock.

Without thinking, Sherlock blurted, “You do have a brother – one that’s worried about you. Bit rough to write him off completely just because you don’t approve of his drinking.”

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock’s lack of control. John’s mouth was hanging open and Greg was almost falling off his chair with laughter at the look on John’s face.

“How the fuck did you know all that?” John whispered, looking awed.

Sherlock shrugged, annoyed at giving himself away. “I observed.” He said shortly, then elaborated as Mycroft kicked him under the table. “Your phone is inscribed to Harry Watson – brother – from Clara, obviously the wife, given the expense of the phone. Harry’s given it to you, though, so he’s worried about you, but you’re looking for a flatshare, so you won’t go to him for help. There are a number of scratches around the power connection, that’s where his hand trembled plugging it in at night. Never see a drunk’s phone without them.”

Sherlock snapped his mouth closed, bracing for the inevitable ridicule.

“Brilliant.” John breathed, and when Greg agreed fervently, Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Perhaps John was even more interesting that he’d given him credit for.

“Harry’s my sister, but that’s pretty close.” John added. Mycroft smirked and Sherlock scowled.

“There’s always something.” He muttered.

“Not like it matters, that was seriously amazing.” John consoled him. Sherlock felt marginally better at the repeated praise.

“I feel a drinking game coming on!” Greg exclaimed. He bolted to the bar with enthusiastic encouragement from John, returning with a bottle of vodka and four shot glasses. Mycroft looked alarmed and supremely uncomfortable, Sherlock noted. 

“Right, we’ll take it in turns figuring out stuff about people here,” Greg waved an arm vaguely around the bar, “and if you get one wrong, you drink.” John nodded immediately, the brothers less quickly. Mycroft turned to Sherlock, who shrugged.

“Fine then.” Mycroft murmured, taking his shot glass.

“What about…him?” John asked, pointing to a tall dark skinned man leaning against the bar. His bald head was shiny with sweat, Sherlock noticed.

“On the pull.” Greg said immediately, and John punched his bicep. 

“Thanks, Captain Obvious. Anything else?” John asked. Greg shrugged.

“He’s security.” Mycroft said, Sherlock nodding in agreement.

John scoffed. “Seriously?” he pointed to the man’s elbow. “He’s drinking!”

“There’s nothing in there but soda.” Sherlock said, supporting his brother. “It lacks the distinctive oily sheen of vodka. Watch next time the barman makes him a drink, he’s faking the vodka pour.” They watched in silence until Sherlock’s prediction was proven. John and Greg shrugged at each other, tossing back their shots with a grimace.

“Your turn.” John said, pointing at Sherlock as he wiped his mouth with the back of one hand.

Sherlock glanced around. “She works in publicity, in town overnight, cheating on her husband for the first time.” 

“How on earth…” Greg asked, looking between Sherlock and the woman, who stood out in her violently pink ensemble. “Mud track up her right calf from an overnight case, no other explanation for the frankly shocking shade of pink, wedding ring removal hasn’t left a mark but she’s playing with the bare skin – not used to taking it off.”

“You’re making that up.” Greg said flatly.

Sherlock looked at him levelly. “Come on, then.”

“Is he right?” John asked Mycroft. As he opened his mouth, the woman slapped Sherlock, who raised his eyebrows at Greg. They returned to the booth, Sherlock rubbing his cheek regretfully.

“He’s right.” Greg confirmed.

“That’s three deductions I believe, Mr. Lestrade.” Sherlock said, half teasingly.

“Challenge accepted.” Greg replied, and proceeded to down three shots in a row. “Keep up, John.” He wheezed, and John followed suit, gasping.

The next twenty minutes or so followed a similar path; John and Greg making wild guesses, Mycroft and Sherlock correcting them before John and Greg drank. When pressed, one of the brothers would make a deduction, though reluctantly. John and Greg soon gave up asking, knowing they would always be right. It wasn’t long before Mycroft and Sherlock were entirely excluded from the game. Sherlock eyed the bottle, now more empty than full, then eyed John and Greg, falling over one another as they squinted to see the other patrons.

He turned to his brother, who looked resigned. “I’m not sure we’re needed any longer, Mycroft.” A slight pang hit him at the thought of not seeing John again. There had been potential there, but…

“I believe you’re right.” Mycroft replied. He indicated the pair in front of them, who had stopped making guesses about their fellow patrons and now appeared to be happily snogging for England. As the brothers watched John shuffled closer, swinging one leg over to straddle Greg. Both men groaned, Greg’s hands firmly on John’s arse as they kissed enthusiastically.

“Nice to meet you both.” Mycroft offered sarcastically. Neither man noticed as the brothers left.

“We are never doing that again.” Sherlock said flatly as they strode towards Baker Street.

Mycroft nodded. “Never.”

THE END  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not happy with this ending? Go back and make a different choice, see where that takes you.


	8. Sherlock And Mycroft Do Swap Partners

“I think that’s an excellent idea, brother.” Mycroft murmured. As they arrived back at the booth, John and Greg shot each other a look before switching seats. Mycroft and Sherlock paused for a moment before John and Greg, both of whom had noticed the momentary stillness, said simultaneously, “What?”

Sherlock shot a glance at his brother before admitting through his blush, “We’d decided to suggest the same thing.” He indicated the switched couples with an index finger.

“Oh.” John blinked, offering a warm smile to Sherlock. A curl of that warmth curled in Sherlock’s stomach and he smiled hesitantly in return.

“So, Mycroft tells me you’re a consulting detective.”

“Only one in the world. I invented the job.” Sherlock replied automatically.

John looked impressed. “So, how does that work?” he asked. Sherlock began to answer, bracing for the usual wandering attention or rude interruption, but none came. John listened to him, and asked questions, not completely intelligent questions, but far above the level he was used to dealing with.

“Have you thought of offering to work with NSY?” John asked. “I mean, I’m sure the classified stuff is important, but you’d get to do some really hands on stuff, real crime scenes, you know?”

“I have offered,” Sherlock said carefully, “but my suggestions were not…well accepted.”

“Maybe you haven’t met the right DI yet.” John grinned at him. “I’m sure I could put in a good word with Greg for you, if you’re interested.”

Sherlock’s heart beat faster. “That would be…very kind.” He accepted.

“So, what does your therapist think of your limp?” He asked without thinking. John, to his credit, managed to not look completely blindsided.

“How…did Greg tell you that?” John asked.

Sherlock, kicking his lack of self-control, shook his head. He swirled his Scotch, watching the light catch the liquid.

“Hey,” John said carefully, “It’s alright, you know. I’m not mad, I’m just, well kind of amazed, actually.”

“Really?” Sherlock replied. “That’s not what people usually say.”

“What do they usually say?” John asked.

“Piss off.”

John chuckled, then leaned in. “What else can you deduce about me?” he asked.

Sherlock scanned his face for any sign he was being sarcastic or insincere, but found none. He took a deep breath. “You’ve already told me you’re an Army doctor, recently invalided home. Either Afghanistan or Iraq, though Afghanistan is statistically more likely. You have a brother who is worried about you but no other extended family, at least none you’re close to. You don’t approve of you brother’s drinking, or possibly the fact that he recently left his wife. Odds are that you trained at St. Bart’s and are in the process of finding teaching work through an old friend.” Sherlock stopped, holding his breath as John digested his monologue.

“That was, that was brilliant.” John said haltingly.

Sherlock exhaled.

“I don’t even care how you did it, it’s remarkable, like a magic trick.” John gushed.

Sherlock shrugged. He felt warm inside, comfortable in a way he had not felt in a long time. As he looked up, he saw John’s blue eyes on him.

“I’m glad we switched.” Sherlock spoke quietly, but he could tell John had heard him from the widening of his smile.

“Me, too.” John replied. His expression grew vacant, and Sherlock felt fingers brush along his knee. His eyes widened momentarily before he dropped one hand under the table, his own fingers finding John’s. They tangled together, messy but very right. The smile that John now gave Sherlock was full of warmth. Self-conscious at such a public display of affection, Sherlock shot a glance sideways at Mycroft and Greg. Greg had slid around the bend of their booth so he and Mycroft were sitting beside each other. Their joined hands rested on Greg’s knee, his thumb brushing gently along Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft met Sherlock’s eyes, before he brought his other hand to the table, idly drumming a pattern against the wood.

M-U-M-M-Y  W-I-L-L  A-P-P-R-O-V-E  H-E-S  A  P-O-W-E-R  T-O-P

Sherlock snorted.

Greg flushed.

John barked a surprised laugh.

As the three men all reacted at once, Mycroft jumped, looking sharply at them before blushing crimson and drawing his hand back in to cover his face.

“Army,” John said, pointing to himself, then Greg, “and Police. Pretty sure we’re down with Morse Code, Mycroft.”

Sherlock smirked. “At least we all know where you two stand.” He goaded his brother.

“And what about you, Sherlock?” Mycroft retorted through his embarrassment.

Sherlock’s cheeks turned pink, but he dropped his chin and pinned John with a smouldering look as he said loud enough for Greg and Mycroft to hear, “I’m just glad my housekeeper’s away this weekend.”

Greg snorted.

John flushed.

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

“Happy endings all around, then.” Greg said, smiling at Mycroft.

“So it appears.” Sherlock replied contentedly.

THE END


	9. FLUFFY

 

_John and Sherlock, ten minutes later_

“Come on, John!” The elation of the chase, the blood pumping through their veins…Sherlock turned the corner and collapsed against the wall, laughing and panting in equal measure.

“What the hell was that about?” John said, gasping for breath as he caught up with Sherlock. He leaned against the wall next to Sherlock, turning his head up to look at the taller man. Without his cane, Sherlock noticed with satisfaction.

Sherlock grinned down at him. “I have no intention of sharing this with my brother, John. There’s no way Mycroft would break into a run in public and we had to get away.”

“Yeah, well as your doctor, well, _a_ doctor, you probably shouldn’t be running quite so soon after being drugged.” John pointed out.

Privately Sherlock agreed (his head was swimming again) but he wouldn’t admit it to John. Glancing over, he realised that he didn’t need to say it – John’s expression said quite clearly that he knew exactly how Sherlock was feeling.

“Do you really want to go out to eat?” John asked. He glanced at his watch. “It’s half two, not exactly meal time.”

Sherlock shrugged. No point giving John more ammunition by admitting his terrible eating habits.

“Well then, what do you actually want to do?” John asked, amused patience in his voice.

Sherlock hesitated, looking speculatively over at John. “Do you really want to know?”

“Would I have asked if I didn’t?” John retorted.

Sherlock considered this carefully. “Some people – a lot of people – would, yes. You though, I don’t think you would ask unless you really did want to know.” He sounded surprised, he realised. Probably because he was. It was rare that he found someone interested in what he wanted to do.

John nodded as though Sherlock had made a blindingly obvious comment. “Well then?” he asked again, taking Sherlock’s hand in his own. “Are you going to decide or am I?”

Sherlock glanced down at his hand, entwined with John’s, and smiled. “Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Gripping John’s fingers in his own, Sherlock steered John through the streets, ignoring his laughing protestations until they stopped in front of an unassuming building.

“Where are we?” John asked, looking around.

“You’ll see.” Sherlock told him, pulling open the door. John glanced up as though surprised the old building hadn’t toppled down at the action, then stepped through the doorway. Sherlock followed, allowing the heavy door to swing closed behind him. He loved this part – the first breath inside smelled of dust and paper and old, old leather. He could see the dust motes floating, lit by the window against the dimmer interior.

“A bookstore.” John breathed, looking at the tall bookshelves crammed with books. They were mostly leather bound editions. He stepped forward, tilting his head to read the spines. “Medical techniques of Early Rome…A treatise on Dissection of the Female Form…” his murmuring continued as he stood back and scanned the sections around him, picking out the occasional title. “Medical history…botany, ‘Nature’s Poisons’,…anatomy…chemistry…ethical discussion, “’A Proposal for Sex Reassignment Surgery in Five Parts’….” John trailed off and stared at Sherlock.

“It’s a physical sciences bookstore, John.” Sherlock spread his arms. “Some excellent references, plus interesting historical texts. And hardly well known, it’s always quiet in here.” A rush of self-consciousness overcame him and he dropped his arms, looking at John through his lashes.

“Brilliant.” John breathed, a delighted smile creeping over his face. Without another word he turned to choose a title from the shelf, leafing slowly through, examining the hand coloured illustrations carefully.

Sherlock was, well, a lot of things, and all at once. Excited, relieved, grateful, and something warm in his chest that he couldn’t name. He watched John for a moment, feeling his lips stretch into a smile, before John caught him out, turning his head and asking, “What?” Sherlock shook his head before heading down the aisle marked, ‘Botany’. He missed the matching smile cross John’s face.

It felt like just moments later that John approached Sherlock, though Sherlock knew time passed differently here.

“Hi.” John said, hands in his back pockets.

“Hi.” Sherlock replied, closing his copy of ‘Nature’s Poisons.’

“How are you feeling?” John questioned him.

Sherlock shrugged. “Fine,” then amended it to, “Better than earlier,” when he saw John’s disbelieving face.

“Dinner?” John asked, extending a hand to help Sherlock up from where he was sitting on the floor.

“What time is it?” Sherlock asked, disoriented.

“Half seven.” John replied. “I got a bit lost in ‘Medical History’. What time does this place close?”

Sherlock took John’s hand, hauling himself up to standing. “Oh, I have a key. I helped Laurence out once, and he knows I take care of the books. He went home a while ago.” As he finished speaking, Sherlock realised how close he and John were standing. He was quite a lot taller, he realised; if he hugged John, his chin would rest comfortably against that salt and pepper hair. The idea was tempting.

‘So, dinner?” John repeated, head tilted up. His face was open, a smile dancing across his mouth. Sherlock resisted the urge to lean down and taste that smile.

“Starving.” Sherlock replied, though he really wasn’t. John didn’t need to know that.

“Liar.” John whispered, stretching up to press a brief kiss on Sherlock’s mouth. Before he could register more than _soft rough warm lovely_ John was gone, halfway down the aisle and heading for the door.

“I know this great place on Northumberland Street.” John said. He looked around. “I left my cane outside your place, thanks very much. I’m sure you knew it was psychosomatic, but still. I have no idea where we are, but maybe we can get a…”

Sherlock stuck an arm out and a cab appeared as though by magic.

“How did you do that?” John marvelled as they slid into the backseat. He gave the driver the address then looked at Sherlock.

“I suspect my brother has a number of cabs on retainer to follow me around. I can be a handful.” Sherlock told him without a hint of embarrassment. It was important that boyfriends knew the worst about each other.

“I bet you can.” John’s voice was warm with the same thing Sherlock had felt in his chest earlier. _Affection_? Sherlock wondered. He looked over at John, who raised their joined hands ( _When had that happened?)_ and kissed Sherlock’s knuckles. He smiled at John and his heart soared when John smiled back. _Affection_ , Sherlock thought dazedly.

 

_Mycroft and Greg, shortly after leaving Baker Street_

“Sherlock!” Mycroft called sharply, though he did not take even one step towards his brother and the Army doctor, whose limp seemed remarkably healed judging by the speed at which he followed Sherlock. Mycroft sighed.

“Just you and me then?” Greg said cheerfully.

“It looks that way. I apologise for my brother.” Mycroft said, irritation prickling at his skin.

“No problem.” Greg replied. “What shall we do, then?”

Mycroft considered the question carefully. “What would you like to do, Greg?”

“Anything, so long as it’s with you.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft blurted in shock. Had Greg really just spouted such a shamelessly romantic line? He watched a smile spread over Greg’s face, fascinated by the minute changes in musculature. It appeared his interest was reciprocated then.

“You heard me.” Greg replied, turning to wander down the road. Mycroft fell into step, thinking quickly about where would be an appropriate place to visit on a first date (was this a date?) at…2.27 in the afternoon. They walked slowly towards Regent’s Park, crossing the Outer Circle Road and entering the park proper. Neither spoke much, which ought to have been awkward, Mycroft thought, though it was not. Greg appeared to be perfectly at ease as they walked side by side, their arms brushing occasionally. A woman walking with a toddler came in the other direction, and Greg took Mycroft’s hand as they moved to give the small boy space to pass. When they’d gone, he didn’t let go, allowing their interlaced fingers to swing gently between them.

“This is nice?” Mycroft had hoped to hit ‘casual and in control’, but he was fairly sure his tone was far more questioning than he’d intended.

Greg glanced at him with an amused look. They were approaching York Bridge, and he stopped, watching the greenish water shift slowly as he leaned against the railing.

“You never told me how you and John came to be in the bar.” Mycroft asked, watching Greg watch the water.

“John’s just back from service. He was catching me up on what’s been going on with him since he got back. Invalided out, though you wouldn’t know it to look at him. He left his cane in the bar, we had to go back for it later,” Greg said.

Mycroft raised one eyebrow. “Psychosomatic. His actual injury was elsewhere, then.”

“Yes…as soon as he saw your brother collapse, he jumped into action, quite literally, and forgot about the cane.”

“Ah, that explains it.” Mycroft nodded.

“Explains what?” Greg asked.

Mycroft hesitated. He’d spoken without thinking, and now he wondered if it would be wiser to keep his deductive powers to himself for the time being. Looking at Greg, though, his brown eyes open and genuinely interested, Mycroft found himself saying, “If the cane had been for a physical injury, you wouldn’t have chosen to stand at the bar – he’d forgotten about it long before Sherlock’s date spiked his drink.”

Greg blinked. “True enough.” He tilted his head, looking carefully at Mycroft as he asked, “Do you always notice details like that?”

Mycroft shrugged self-consciously. “I always notice. I rarely share my deductions.” He smiled thinly. “I learned the hard way how unlikable it made me.”

“I don’t know,” Greg teased, “You shared it with me and I’m still here.”

“Ah, but it wasn’t a deduction about you,” Mycroft said. As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew what Greg would say. Sure enough, Greg straightened and held his arms out in a silent, ‘go on, then.’

Mycroft looked at Greg for a moment, then flicked his eyes across his body. Faded jeans, but fitted in all the right places; navy shirt and charcoal jacket set off that silver hair remarkably well, Mycroft thought, distracted from his original task. “Are you sure?” he asked. Greg nodded, curiosity and amusement curling with something Mycroft did not often see – trust.

“You’re a police officer, reasonably senior, but you’re happy not to progress further up the ladder. You enjoy going out in the field and worry that promotion will restrict your ability to do so. You’ve been married, and recently; your last holiday was with your ex-wife, probably to try and resolve things but something happened on the trip and you split up before you made it home.” Mycroft stopped himself – sometimes the information came out of him like a stream of consciousness, uncensored and out of control. He watched Greg’s face change and braced for the inevitable rude comment at the invasive nature of his deduction.

“Brilliant,” Greg breathed. His mouth spread in a grin, and he gave a delighted laugh. “Spot on! We tried a couple of weeks in Spain, but she was shagging the scuba instructor before we’d been there a week. I figured I might as well stay, get the most for my money. That was six weeks ago.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows rose. Much sooner than he’d thought, then. He immediately wondered if it was a good idea, getting involved with someone so freshly out of a serious relationship, and in traumatic circumstances…

“My turn,” Greg said, pulling Mycroft out of his head. Greg had stepped in, his body close without touching Mycroft. “I could see you freeze when I told you the holiday finished six weeks ago. I didn’t mention we’d been separated almost a year before that – Cissy had begged me to reconcile. So really, I’ve been more or less single for a year. You don’t have to worry about being Mr. Rebound.”

Mycroft relaxed at that, a smile curling his lips up. “Very good, Greg.”

“Why thank you. Perhaps I should do it for a living or something.” Greg replied, and they both smiled. Greg reached his hand forward again, threading their fingers together once more. He was the same height as Mycroft, which made leaning forward to kiss the corner of Mycroft’s mouth as easy as swaying forward and closing his eyes. Mycroft felt Greg’s breath dance across his face, the light caress mirrored in the touch of his lips. Before it had started it was over, Greg’s weight shifting backwards again.

“I’m glad your brother’s not here.” Greg whispered, breaking into giggles at the look on Mycroft’s face.

“Urgh. Don’t ever mention my brother in this context again, I beg of you.”

“Of course.” Greg agreed, his own smile prompting one to bloom on Mycroft’s face.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Make a different choice and see where that takes you.


	10. ROMANTIC/FLUFFY

 

_John and Sherlock, later that afternoon_

In the end, they’d walked along the Thames for miles. John’s cane had been left at the pub; Sherlock had ordered and eaten a meal. Neither knew each other well enough yet to realise how remarkable those two events were. The silence should have been awkward, but it was not. Sherlock found himself shortening his long stride, walking without the urgency that so often distinguished his gait, allowing John to walk comfortably beside him. They talked (and for long stretches, they didn’t). Sherlock told John about the puzzles Mycroft let him solve; his dissatisfaction with the process (he hated being under his brother’s control, but the alternative was admittedly worse).

“What’s the alternative?” John asked, watching a small boat wander slowly up the river in the falling darkness.

Sherlock shifted, considering his options. He’d already revealed more to this man than to almost anybody; only his brother knew more about his past, and that was more a statement of their fraternity rather than any particular closeness.

“Cocaine, mostly.” The words were stark in the rapidly cooling air. Sherlock slid a sideways look at John, who was nodding slowly to himself.

“I’m assuming that huge brain of yours needs something to do.” John replied carefully.

Sherlock nodded, unsure how his admission was being received. Was John wondering how he could escape from this date? Perhaps he was disgusted with himself, having shown interest in such a weak man, running to drugs when he couldn’t deal with the world.

“You know, Greg’s a DI.” John’s voice cut through the cascade of panicky questions Sherlock found piling up in his brain.

“What?” Sherlock asked.

“I’m sure there’s a whole room of cold cases at NSY.” John had stopped now, and was looking consideringly at Sherlock, tilting his head as he seemed to assess Sherlock’s very soul (if indeed he believed in such nonsense).

“Are you suggesting I approach him and offer my services?” Sherlock asked. “I’ve done that before, made my analysis of the evidence. It’s never been particularly well received.” He’d always been a little offended, if he was honest with himself; Sherlock knew that his mind was sharper and faster than the vast majority of those at Scotland Yard. They were even more foolish than he’d initially suspected, turning down his offer.

“Sherlock, I’m going to make a deduction, and if my deduction is right, you’re going to be honest and tell me.” John’s arms were crossed and his eyes were amused yet firm. Sherlock raised an eyebrow, inviting John to continue. “When you offered, you were a dick about it, weren’t you.”

Sherlock’s open mouth and wide eyes were too much for John, who burst out laughing at the sight.

“That’s a little offensive, John.” Sherlock objected, though there wasn’t much heat behind the words.

“Social graces aren’t your forte, Sherlock. I’ve known you for all of one day and I know that.” John’s words were softly amused, and for some reason the truth behind his words did not bear the same sting as other’s had. John unfolded his arms, reaching up now to tug at Sherlock’s, which had folded defensively over his own chest. Sherlock resisted for a moment before allowing John to release his arms. Small warm fingers threaded themselves between his own longer ones, the sensation spreading up his arm to erase the last vestiges of hurt pride.

“I was thinking that I could talk to Greg on your behalf, actually.” John said quietly, bringing Sherlock’s knuckles up to his lips.

“You’d do that for me?” Sherlock asked in shock.

“Yeah, of course.” John smiled. “Though it’s for Greg too, he’s copping a lot of flak for all the uncleared cases at the moment.” His expression turned mock severe, though Sherlock could see genuine steel behind it. “You’d have to be, well not nice, exactly, but less openly hostile.”

Sherlock, still recovering from the shock of such an altruistic offer, rolled his eyes automatically. He also squeezed John’s fingers, not too hard in case it wasn’t what he was supposed to do. John squeezed back, though, so it must have been right.

“Thank you.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and his eyes had landed on John’s face. “Why?” he couldn’t help asking. What was it that made this man be nice to him? Nobody was nice to him, not once they knew him at all.

Instead of an answer, John brought his other hand up to Sherlock’s face, tracing the shape of his jaw with trailing fingers. Those same fingers slid under his ear and tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck, bringing his head down to John’s. Their foreheads touched, the air between them heating quickly as they exhaled into the same space. Sherlock closed his eyes, the intimacy close to overwhelming. Just when he thought he had a hold on it, John tilted his head and shifted closer, settling his lips over Sherlock’s in a gentle kiss. He didn’t move, or ask or expect; Sherlock felt the increase in his breathing signal the response his body was having to John’s action. Tentatively, he brought his own free hand up, resting it on John’s shoulder.

Immediately, John flinched, pulling his head back and twisting away, dropping Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock’s heart, which had been pounding from the kiss, was now racing even faster – had he ruined it? What had he done to elicit such a response?

“Sorry.” John murmured, taking a deep breath and gingerly rolling his shoulder. “The psychosomatic limp goes with the very real shoulder wound.” He looked self-conscious, Sherlock observed, glancing away as though Sherlock might not want to hear about his imperfection. Without thought, Sherlock tugged his fingers free of John’s, and before the shock could bloom into hurt and embarrassment, his hands cupped John’s face, looking into his eyes before bringing their mouths together once again. After a long moment, John shuddered, his hands gripping Sherlock’s waist as they kissed, lips parting and tongues exploring. Sherlock could feel the effect he was having on John; the grabbing, the roughened breathing – it was intoxicating. They were still in public, however; the rapidly cooling air was a reminder to them both. Kisses became touches became brushes until they stood, foreheads pressed together once again, breathing in each other’s air.

“You’re looking for a flat share.” Sherlock said suddenly.

John looked startled for a moment, until his face relaxed into a smile. “I have nightmares, I’m pedantic about how the tea gets made and I kept my service weapon.”

Sherlock blinked, uncertain how his comment and John’s related to each other.

“Potential flatmates should know the worse about each other.” John added, and a radiant smile bloomed on Sherlock’s face.

_Greg and Mycroft, later than night_

In the end, he’d been a perfect gentleman, Mycroft decided. Greg had been considerate, funny (but not inappropriate); he’d asked questions and actually listened to the answers. Everything you could want a first date to be. Despite that, Mycroft was still uncertain about what would happen at the end of this evening. While he had enjoyed himself, and he could read that Greg had done the same, the concern that his own desire were colouring the deductions about Greg’s romantic interest left him in a quandary. _Good grief, is this what ordinary people experience? It’s ghastly,_ Mycroft thought to himself. He had a little space to think, after Greg had excused himself for a moment. They were sitting in a Spanish restaurant, having eaten an early but delicious dinner. A band had just started up – something haunting and slow. Mycroft didn’t need to use his flawless Spanish to know that it was about longing for something you couldn’t have. As he waited for Greg to return, Mycroft watched the first couple get up to dance – a young couple, clearly in love. They whispered and laughed, his hand at the small of her back; they did not care what anyone thought, lost as they were in their own little world. A wave of sudden sentiment came over Mycroft. He could dance, of course; one of the many skills that served him well as a single man at a formal event was the ability to steer a bored looking Ambassador’s wife around the dancefloor, leaving her husband to do business. He’d never, though, taken to the floor with someone special, someone that he wanted to whisper and laugh with, ignoring the technicalities to sway together, using the music as an excuse to press close.

Despite the modern world’s general take on same sex relationships, Mycroft had no idea how Greg felt about it. He sighed, watching the couple wistfully. Perhaps one day…

“May I have this dance?” A voice sounded at Mycroft’s elbow, and he looked up in surprise. Greg stood close, one hand extended in invitation.

“Pardon?” Mycroft replied.

“You heard me. Dance with me, Mycroft.” Hesitating for a beat, Mycroft saw disappointment flare in Greg’s eyes, and it was this that galvanised him into action. He stood, placing his own hand in Greg’s, allowing himself to be lead to the dancefloor, heart pounding.

When they arrived both hesitated, until Greg admitted sheepishly, “I can’t dance at all.”

Mycroft blinked at him, something warm blossoming in his chest. “Why on earth are we here, then?” He asked. As he spoke, he took Greg’s arms and placed them on his own shoulders; the feel of Greg’s muscles under his fingers as he slid his hands onto Greg’s waist. They shifted together, swaying in time to the music. When Greg realised Mycroft was not intending to sweep him wildly around the floor, he relaxed, moving with Mycroft in their own corner of the floor.

“You were watching that other couple with such, I dunno, longing.” Greg tried to explain.

Mycroft felt his cheeks warm, and knew he was blushing. “I’ve never dance with someone outside of a class or a work obligation,” he admitted, captivated by the broad grin this elicited from Greg.

“So I’m your first, then?” Greg teased. Mycroft groaned at the joke. He pulled Greg a little closer, their bodies brushing as they swayed to the music. They were exactly the same height, Mycroft knew, and it made looking into Greg’s eyes easy. The song had changed, though the easy tempo and plaintive style remained the same. Mycroft closed his eyes, inhaling the warmth and scent of Greg, still clear under the aromas of the restaurant.

“I bet you learned to dance because your mother thought it would be a good idea.” Greg murmured.

“Guilty.” Mycroft replied.

“Did she make all your life decisions for you?” Greg asked. There was no tease or resentment in his tone; he appeared to be genuinely interested. Mycroft told him a little about their upbringing; the challenges of keeping two brilliant, stubborn boys occupied in their lonely country house.

“Sounds like a real firecracker.” Greg said finally.

“She is. It was her idea, actually, the whole dating thing.”

Greg pulled back a little, a crease forming between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

Mycroft realised Greg had no idea about the origin of the double date at the bar. The flush that had subsided now came rushing back; there was no way out now. Greg would have to be told, and he would surely find it ridiculous. It had been a nice evening, at least, Mycroft thought despondently.

“Mummy signed Sherlock and I up for Grindr. We came to an agreement about the frequency and…conditions of the dates. The pair you met last night were our second foray into such situations.”

“And was the first date better or worse than last night?” Greg asked.

Mycroft considered carefully. “Well the first date lasted approximately eight seconds and ended when Sherlock and I fled. I’d been groped and he'd been propositioned, so I suppose it depends on your definition of ‘better’.” Greg was chuckling at this point, and Mycroft cautiously entertained the thought that perhaps all was not lost.

“I think I need to explain to your mother how to pick a good date.” Greg said, laughing.

“Pardon?” Mycroft said, not believing what he’d heard.

“Well, I’ll have to meet her, won’t I? Saved Sherlock’s life and all that. Plus I could be your exhibit A: this is what a good date looks like.” Greg grinned at Mycroft. The same warm sensation rose in Mycroft’s chest, but this time it did not abate; instead it fuelled Mycroft’s spontaneous action, to lean forward and kiss Greg. The startled DI was still for a moment, before leaning forward and kissing back. Greg’s lips were smooth with an abrupt rough border of 5 o’clock shadow; Mycroft stifled a small moan at the sensation, wondering if Greg could feel the same on himself. It was soft and gorgeous and full of the gratitude Mycroft felt for Greg, that he could be so casually confident in their budding relationship that he’d talk about presenting himself to Mycroft’s _mother_ as the ideal date. Mycroft’s hands gripped the back of Greg’s shirt, holding on as emotions rolled inside him at the touch and taste of this glorious man. Gasping a little, Mycroft pulled back, staring with wide eyes at Greg. The slow grin, self-confident and sexy as hell, was becoming familiar as it broke across Greg’s face.

“Dessert?” Greg asked, then added innocently, “The crema catalana here is excellent.”

Mycroft grinned, noting the double entendre that Greg so clearly intended. “Absolutely.”

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	11. SMUTTY

 

_Greg and Mycroft, later that evening_

“Another, Greg?” Mycroft asked. They had ended up in this little known wine bar after a day that had somehow stretched afternoon tea into dinner into post dinner drinks. Greg knew a lot about wine, a fact Mycroft seemed to be surprised to discover; Greg hoped to surprise him again, if only to see the look on his face. They had sampled some superb examples of Australian red wine, and another drink would definitely push them from ‘nicely buzzed’ to ‘definitely drunk’.

“Best not,” Greg said, stretching. Disappointment was etched in Mycroft’s face for a brief moment. Greg grinned to himself. His interest in this well dressed, proper gentleman was definitely reciprocated; the afternoon had been punctuated with heavy silences, casual touches and the kind of anticipation that hangs in the air when two people are thinking more about fucking than their dinner. Greg just hoped he wasn’t mistaken. “We could walk for a bit, there’s a tube station not far from here.” He offered.

“Certainly, though I have a car that can take you home.” Mycroft replied.

 _Thank you Gods, for that perfect opening,_ Greg thought to himself. “Or _you_ could take me home.”

Mycroft stilled, his whole body freezing as he processed Greg’s words. Greg watched his face, knowing that the wine would have mellowed him some, even though his protective mask was more or less in place.

“Really?” Mycroft said finally, his voice low.

Greg nodded. He leaned forward across their small table, brushing one hand up Mycroft’s thigh to sit at the juncture of his hip as he murmured, “I’ve been picturing you out of this suit all night.”

+++

Mycroft moved quite fast when he wanted to, Greg reflected. It had taken three minutes, tops, between his admission about picturing Mycroft out of the suit and the car arriving. As soon as the door closed, Greg indicated the driver, raising one eyebrow in query. In response, Mycroft had pressed a button, causing the privacy screen to slide closed.

“How long have we got?” Greg asked as Mycroft launched himself across the car, straddling Greg and kissing his neck fervently.

“Seventeen minutes.” Mycroft gasped between kisses.

 _How precise,_ Greg thought in amusement, then stopped thinking. He ran his hands down Mycroft’s back and up again, under the suit jacket. He felt braces against the cotton shirt, then dropped his hands lower, pressing them over the curve of Mycroft’s delicious arse. Mycroft groaned, pushing his face into Greg’s shoulder as they both arched hips, bringing two desperately hard erections together. It was a terrible angle, Greg thought absently, though it didn’t stop him continuing to reach for the friction. He tilted his head down, plastering open mouthed kissed against the side of Mycroft’s face until he got the hint, turning his head so they could kiss. It was glorious, messy and wet and perfect. The subtle difference in kissing a man, Greg remembered, excitement coursing through him at the rediscoveries that lay ahead. It had been a long time since he’d made out with a man, let alone gone any further (and he suspected he’d go a LOT further tonight). Mycroft kissed hard, hands on Greg’s face as Greg continued to hold onto his arse, neither maintaining a rhythm but still pushing asynchronously toward each other. It was more frustrating than relieving, but it added to the anticipation; Greg knew that this was going to be memorable, whatever happened.

Eventually the car came to a stop, the driver tapping the brakes harder than necessary. Mycroft almost spilled out of Greg’s lap; it took them both a minute to get their bearings, straighten up and step out of the car.

“Driver’s a little rough.” Greg noted, fighting to keep his hands to himself as Mycroft unlocked his front door.

“Driver’s very perceptive. He was giving us the hint without embarrassing anybody.” Mycroft replied, opening the door. As soon as they were inside they reached for each other, frantic hands undressing, jackets and shirts and all the fussy details that had fascinated Greg about Mycroft – cufflinks and braces and waistcoat. They fumbled with each other’s buttons, too desperate to laugh at their ineptitude; when at last their bodies came together, shirtless, Greg groaned into Mycroft’s mouth, the sensation of skin against skin almost too much. A hand skated up his ribs, fingers brushing his nipple; he bit back another moan, only for Mycroft to gasp, “Don’t do that. I like to hear you.” The frank admission drew another noise from Greg, and he allowed it out, hands roaming over Mycroft, touching every centimetre he could reach.

With a suddenness that shocked Greg, Mycroft pulled himself together enough to steer Greg towards a loveseat that sat in the entryway. Greg sat down hard, overbalancing backwards. He was about to protest when Mycroft dropped to his knees, sucking a mark below Greg’s bellybutton and opening his flies at the same time.

“I want to hear you scream my name.” Mycroft said, his bold eyes meeting Greg’s. Before Greg could even get his head around that statement ( _was this what wine does to him I’ll have to take him there more often so much for the stuffy suits oh fuck he’s about to-_ ) Greg found himself doing just that.

“Fuck! Mycroft!” he shouted hoarsely. Mycroft had sucked one of Greg’s balls into his mouth, then the other; his mouth then worked its way up Greg’s hard cock to swallow him down without pause. Greg groaned, panting hard, seeing stars at the sensations cascading through his body. Who would have thought Mycroft- but his thought process was cut off again. Mycroft was ruthless, sucking with a relentless rhythm, his fingers tugging gently on Greg’s balls, or running over his stomach, up to his nipples again. The whole day had been such a build-up, Greg felt his orgasm charging up at him in a very short time. There was no way he’d be able to stop it, so he simply let go, allowing a steady stream of praise and profanity drop from his mouth until Mycroft’s name was rent in a desperate plea, his body jerking hard as he came. The first shot went into Mycroft’s mouth but the spasm jerked him away, leaving the rest to paint Mycroft’s face. Greg was too blissed out to care too much.

“Well, fuck me.” Greg muttered breathlessly, checking he wouldn’t fall off the seat before collapsing. He opened his eyes to look at Mycroft, who looked wrecked. He was shivering, Greg thought, before realising Mycroft had opened his own trousers and was pulling at his own cock; as Greg’s eyes met his, Mycroft came, body trembling with tension before collapsing, his head in Greg’s lap.

“Apologies, Greg. Perhaps later.” Mycroft deadpanned without opening his eyes. They both chuckled before slowly heading for the shower together.

_John and Sherlock, the following morning_

John stretched, feeling his left shoulder shift differently than his right. One hand bumped into a warm, solid body, and he grinned sleepily to himself. Yesterday’s afternoon out had stretched into the evening and then the night. A very satisfactory night. In this warm, lazy morning, John remembered how they’d stumbled up the stairs, tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing wild and desperate until their bodies fell onto the bed together.

John’s mind wasn’t the only part of his body interested in these recollections – he could feel his usual half-hard erection swelling significantly at the possibility of more action. Rolling over, John slotted his body against Sherlock’s, kissing the vertebrae until he heard the deep, even breathing hitch and change, signalling Sherlock’s awakening. Grinning, John slid one arm around Sherlock’s waist, caressing the taut muscles of his stomach and lower, so the head of his erect cock brushed the back of John’s hand. John dragged the back of his knuckles against the growing thickness, his smile broadening as Sherlock’s breath changed again. A groan sounded low and delicious, which John took as his cue to shift his hand, fingers grasping the cock they’d been caressing, squeezing firmly, feeling the second groan burn a trail right to his own naked erection, now pressed against Sherlock’s arse. It twitched in interest, and Sherlock’s hips rolled backwards, rubbing against John.

“Mmmm…” John moaned, working into a slow lazy rhythm with Sherlock, a contrast to the frantic fucking of the night before. John’s cock was sliding between Sherlock’s cheeks, his hand sliding up and down on Sherlock’s cock; the sensations were building slowly, the warm flow through his bones chasing the heaviness of sleep away. John pressed his forehead against Sherlock’s back, his breathing laboured and hot in the confined space. They could continue like this, of course, but John had an extensive list of things he’d like to do with (and on, around and _in_ ) Sherlock’s body. Without removing his hand from Sherlock’s cock, he shifted his weight, pulling the taller man down to lie on his back, while John sprawled further down the bed, his face now more or less even with Sherlock’s hip. He kissed the sharp protrusion, looking up to meet the gaze of those amazing eyes. They were currently wide and locked on his, and John smiled, both wicked and encouraging.

“Thought I might taste my way around you.” John murmured, loud enough to be heard over the heavy breathing.

“Oh, yes please…” Sherlock whimpered, a sound that morphed into a full on groan when John proceeded to press the flat of his tongue to the skin closest to hand. He dragged his mouth slowly across Sherlock’s pelvis until he felt a gentle bump on his cheek. John shifted his trajectory, aiming for the base of Sherlock’s cock now, until he was able to dip his tongue against the very lowest part, following the engorged tissue right down to where Sherlock’s balls hung full between his thighs. John followed the curve of Sherlock’s cock with the tip of his tongue, then dragged it upwards, gliding along the length until he could tilt his head, enveloping the tip in his mouth. Sherlock shouted and bucked his hips, pressing against John’s restraining hands. John sucked, tasting the fluid that had been threatening to slide right down as it beaded at Sherlock’s slit – the taste was familiar and foreign, a whisper from the past and yet unique.

“John, John…” Sherlock was moaning now, and John realised there wouldn’t be a lot of teasing happening here – he sounded like he was ready to go off any second. _Hard and fast, then,_ John thought to himself. He pulled off for a moment, sliding his body roughly against Sherlock’s until they were nose to nose. Ignoring the whine of protest, John looked into Sherlock’s eyes as he said seriously, “I’m going to suck you dry, and then I’m going to fuck you senseless.” It appeared that words were beyond Sherlock at that point; he simply gaped and nodded. John grinned, kissed him hard, and returned to his position between Sherlock’s legs.

His declaration had the desired effect; Sherlock was even harder, if that was even possible; he flinched when John took him in as deeply as possible, sucking and tonguing; using his hands, John touched as much of Sherlock as he could reach – balls, thighs, stomach, feeling the muscles spasm until they tensed, Sherlock’s hands twisted in John’s hair and he came hard into the back of John’s throat, pulsing and groaning. John’s control, which had been sorely tested, was reaching its limits now; he hadn’t touched his own cock other than a few ruts against the sheets. After a few moments kissing and tasting Sherlock’s thighs and hips, John slid up Sherlock’s flaccid body. Despite the orgasm, Sherlock had found the lube, and he lifted his knees, half-closed eyes pinned on John.

“Won’t take much after the toys last night.” Sherlock muttered, his voice low and rich as chocolate. John’s cock jumped at the memory of Sherlock showing off his playthings; the exhibitionist and the voyeur was certainly a game they would be revisiting. Right now, John focussed on the practical, hoping to last more than two minutes; the condom would help, though his hand as he lubed himself up was almost too much.

John looked up from his own body to see Sherlock had started without him – three fingers were twisting inside his own body, his face contorted, though the eyes were locked on John.

“Oi,” John scolded, “What are you doing?”

“You’re taking too long.” Sherlock gasped, though there was no conviction behind his words. John lightly smacked his arm and the fingers reluctantly slid out, allowing John to replace them with his cock. He rested his elbows beside Sherlock’s chest, pressing slowly in, Sherlock’s relaxed body tight but accepting. John bit his lip, resisting the urge to fuck hard, deep, frantic. Sherlock’s neck was exposed, his head thrown back, and John kissed and licked as he started to rock his hips, his cock sliding in and out of Sherlock’s body. An erection was beginning to press against his belly; obviously the refractory time for the younger man was impressively short.

“It’s not me, John, it’s…oh….it’s you,” Sherlock said, looking at John as he moved.

“W-what?” John replied, still using considerable concentration not to fuck mindlessly into the incredible heat.

“My typical refractory period is twenty three minutes, even with significant stimulation. It’s you that’s making me hard again. Your hands, your m-mou-” Sherlock cut himself with a shout, John’s control fracturing at Sherlock’s words in that voice.

“Sh-sh-sh…” John got no further than the first sound of Sherlock’s name, puffing like a steam train.

Sherlock’s hoarse shouts of “John, oh John…” sounded in time with John’s hips and Sherlock’s hand, wrapped as it was around his own cock. In less than his goal of two minutes, John stiffened, pushing as hard as he could into Sherlock, feeling himself filling the condom. As he started to float on the endorphins, he felt Sherlock clench around him as his orgasm hit, the sticky warmth blossoming between them.

“Fuck me.” John muttered, drawing carefully out and collapsing. He tossed the condom and rolled towards Sherlock, who looked wrecked.

“Not yet, John. You are remarkable, but not quite that good.” Sherlock deadpanned without opening his eyes. They both chuckled, then drifted off into a thoroughly satiated sleep.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	12. Sherlock and Mycroft say NO to Grindr

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter follows on immediately from chapter 2.

“No,” Mycroft sighed, “but what choice do we have?” The question was clearly rhetorical, a minor detail that Sherlock deliberately ignored, dialing a familiar number as he frowned.

“Mummy?” he said, ignoring the look his brother was giving him.

“Sherlock! I was just talking to your brother. Is he correct in saying your dates left a little to be desired?”

“Yes, Mycroft’s account was accurate. I’m aware he has agreed to another date using this ridiculous method, however I will have to decline. I have my work, which is enough, and more importantly, I have absolutely no desire to continue this farce.”

“Sherlock!” Mummy sounded just like Mrs. Hudson when he’d left the kitchen in a state, he thought absently.

“It is my life, after all, Mummy. And before you can bring it up, there is no chance of grandchildren from this venture so that argument is moot.”

“I believe there are a number of ways for you to provide me with children, male partner or not, Sherlock.” Less Mrs. Hudson and more Sally Donovan, with that level of snipe, Sherlock amended his early analogy as Mummy continued, “That is not the point, however. You made a commitment for one year, Sherlock, and I will send you dates to you house if necessary.”

Sherlock snorted. “I don’t recall any such commitment. They would be welcome to wait at Baker Street. I had been planning a long trip abroad anyway.”

“William!” The use of his legal first name pulled Sherlock up short. Mummy only ever called him William when he was dangerously close to the edge. Damn it. She was more set on this ridiculous idea than he’d thought. Glancing over at Mycroft, Sherlock could see that his brother bore a slight smirk – it was obvious how badly this conversation was going. Swatting Mycroft’s leg to get his attention – Mycroft deigned to open his eyes, one eyebrow raised in query – Sherlock blinked S-O-S. Mycroft’s smirk widened and he folded his arms, a clear _NO_.

“My apologies, Mummy. I only wish to express how deeply uncomfortable I am with this whole process.” Sherlock backpedaled, hoping perhaps she would take pity on him.

“Of course you are, Sherlock. Any new skill takes practice and a level of discomfort. You are simply used to succeeding in an unusually short space of time. Given how badly this date went, I’ll arrange another for next week, shall I?”  
Sherlock sighed. Was it worth the argument? _Yes_ , his brain whispered frantically, throwing possible date scenarios at him until he shuddered in disgust. “No, Mummy, I’m going to have to insist – I will not be going on another Grindr date. If Mycroft was honest with you, he would tell you the same, but he’d prefer to keep the peace and give you false hope.” Mycroft was scowling at Sherlock now, having heard his half of the conversation. _Don’t drag me into this_ , Mycroft mouthed.

 _Too late_ , Sherlock replied silently.

Mummy had rung off and now Mycroft’s phone rang. His scowl deepened and he said sarcastically, “Thank you so much, brother dear. You couldn’t just have,” he sniffed, “ _sucked it up_?”

“No brother, I could not.” Sherlock replied, his annoyance beginning to surface. “Given my intention to drive away all comers, this would continue without end, the candidates becoming less and less tolerable until the same thing happened in six months. I refuse to continue. Better to cut out the torturous middle and end it here.”

Mycroft answered his phone instead of Sherlock, his voice mild. “Hello again, Mummy.”

He’d placed her on speakerphone, and her tinny voice sounded through the car. “Mycroft! I assume you’re with Sherlock?”

Mycroft sighed. “Yes, Mummy.”

“And you no doubt heard his half of the conversation.”

“Yes, Mummy.”

“And is his assessment accurate, Mycroft? You’d rather continue this as a farce with no intention of giving any of the men I chose a chance?” Her voice was plaintive and accusatory at the same time. Sherlock marveled at her ability to do that.

“Not in so many words, Mummy.” Mycroft hedged, wincing.

There was no response, and Sherlock leaned over to check that they were still connected. As he opened his mouth to say, “Mummy?”, a sniffle sounded, then another.

 _For God’s sake_ , Sherlock thought, rolling his eyes. _She’s pulling out all the stops today._

“Mummy?” Mycroft said carefully. The brothers exchanged glances, one impatient, the other hesitant. “I know you want us to meet somebody special.” With a pointed look at Sherlock, Mycroft added, “Perhaps I could suggest a compromise, something with which Sherlock would feel more comfortable.” Sherlock studied his brother, then nodded slowly. They both listened as the sniffles on the other end of the phone abated.

“I’m listening.” Their mother’s voice came, finally.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “The pub next to the hotel was advertising a speed dating evening next week. An opportunity to meet a number of men on one night.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he saw where Mycroft was going with this. “My proposal is thus: Sherlock attends this speed dating event. He will make a genuine effort to converse civilly with the other men and agrees to make further arrangements with any who show a mutual interest.”

There was silence for a moment as all parties considered this suggestion. Finally, Mummy spoke. “But what if he doesn’t meet anybody?” She asked, her voice wavering.

“Then the whole affair is over.” Mycroft said firmly. Sherlock smirked, but Mycroft pinned him with a look while he added, “Sherlock will _promise_ to give this his best effort, Mummy. That’s the compromise – Sherlock will make a genuine effort at speed dating, you will agree to drop the Grindr account as far as he is concerned.”

Sherlock considered for far longer than necessary. He’d already made up his mind, really. Turning to his brother, he asked, “What about you, Mycroft? Speed dating or Grindr?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You have to decide: What will the boys chose to do?  
> If they both reluctantly continue with Grindr, go to [chapter 13](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26068134).  
> If Sherlock goes speed dating but Mycroft continues with Grindr, go to [chapter 14](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26068179).  
> If they both go speed dating and it goes very well, go to [chapter 15](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26068218).  
> If they both go speed dating and it's mediocre at best, go to [chapter 16](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26068272).


	13. Neither Sherlock Nor Mycroft Go Speed Dating

“No, I don’t think speed dating is for me.” Mycroft deferred.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother’s passivity. “You’d do anything to avoid conflict with Mummy, even if it’s just her disappointment that you didn’t love her idea!” he hissed. “Honestly, how can I pretend to like people all night? For a whole night? What if they’re completely insufferable?” Sherlock muttered. His desire to defy Mycroft had warred with his knowledge that the speed dating was not a terrible idea, but in the end, thumbing his nose at Mycroft won out. He raised his voice to be heard by Mummy. “I’d rather endure the Grindr people. But you have to make sure they know there will be no sex.” His face heat up at the conversation with his _mother_ , of all people.

“Of course, Sherlock.” Mummy sounded insufferably smug. Mycroft hung up, assuring her he’d make sure Sherlock behaved.

“I’d like to see you try.” Sherlock taunted. He knew it was a bad idea, but he’d been railroaded into this and he certainly did not have to like it. And if he was miserable, Mycroft could damn well be miserable too.

“No effort, no puzzles, Sherlock.” Mycroft said simply, ignoring Sherlock’s heckling.

Sherlock stared at his brother. “Fine.” He snapped finally. As the car slowed to stop at a red light, he opened the door, calling, “Let me know when she picks the next abominations.” Striding aggressively down the street made him feel marginally better, but there was still a knot of frustration and indignation in his chest when he arrived at Baker Street. He was a grown man, for goodness sake! At least with the Grindr option, Mummy was running some level of interference for him. The speed dating, while significantly short in time, had two main drawbacks; anybody could show up; and Mycroft had suggested it. Flopping down on his sofa, Sherlock closed his eyes and retreated into his mind palace. Bloody Mycroft, he groused.

+++

_One week later…_

**6pm, Builder’s Arms. At least give him a chance, Sherlock. MH**

A nervous man with an appallingly wild beard approached Sherlock, extending his hand. “You must be Sherlock. You look just like your picture!” he said brightly, before stopping, obviously realising how stupid this sounded.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, watching the man flush. “Anderson, I presume.” A quick sweep up and down, and Sherlock sighed. “You probably should decide whether you want a date or a shag, Philip. The colleague you’re sleeping with is getting bored, and she and your wife are both waiting for you to choose one of them. Do either of them know you’re dipping a toe in this testosterone-filled lake as well?”

The man’s complexion went pale, the flush draining from his face at an alarming rate. “I be-beg your pardon? How did you know-“ he blustered.

Sherlock didn’t bother answering, sweeping his coat dramatically as he turned and left. _Not even worth five minutes_ , he thought.

 

_One month later…_

**Minimum requirement: five minutes of civil conversation; no overt deductions. MH**

Sherlock gave the widest smile of which he was capable, steepling his fingers and looking intently at the man in front of him.

“Hello.” He drawled.

“Er, hi. Tom Cooper.”

“So tell me about yourself, Tom.” Sherlock asked. He wondered how long he could not blink. Starting a mental timer, he barely noted most of the man’s monologue – 81% accurate but glossing over his criminal history. When his face started twitching as he strived not to blink, Tom faltered in his speech.

“Faaaaaaaascinating.” Sherlock said, his voice deep. He’d not gone as long as he’d hoped keeping his eyes open, which was annoying. Transport, he thought derisively.

“So, what do you do with yourself?” Tom asked, gamely trying to keep the conversation going.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Tom repeated. This was unendurable.

“I work for the government solving highly comple-“ on cue, Sherlock’s phone rang.

“You’re flirting with treason, brother.” Mycroft’s voice chided him.

Sherlock grinned. “Flirting indeed, my dear.” He replied. Tom looked startled, so Sherlock went on teasingly, “Oh come now, it’s not like we’ve never done that before. You’ll learn to like it, trust me.”

“Sherlock…” Mycroft’s voice was exasperated.

“I’ll come over later and if you don’t like what I’ve done, you can punish me for it.” Sherlock winked at Tom, and that seemed to be the final straw – the inane young man stammered an apology and left. Finally.

Sherlock smirked. “Assuming you have some level of surveillance you’ll be able to see I fulfilled your requirements, Mycroft.”

 

_Two months later…_

Sherlock sighed. It was clear with this date that his brother was now colluding with his mother; the dates were less ridiculous and even more boring, if that were possible. Boring even by ordinary people’s standards, too. This one was an accountant, rising fast to the top, according to the file which arrived at Baker Street (another nod in Mycroft’s direction). Sherlock wondered idly if he was a reject of Mycroft’s – he’d had three dates now, none of which Sherlock had heard about, which meant they were bland and Mycroft had never seen them again. Perfectly satisfying Mummy again without any actual danger to himself, Sherlock thought bitterly.

He was maintaining some level of conversation with – Paul, Patrick, whatever; it hardly warranted space in his brain. The man wasn’t really gay, anyway; he wanted to make his recently ex-girlfriend jealous, hence the selfie he’d already taken with Sherlock to post on his Facebook page. Hashtag first date hashtag future or some such nonsense. The man was halfway through a sentence when Sherlock stood up without a word and walked out, breathing the cold night air into his lungs in relief. Sod Mycroft, he thought. I can’t keep doing this.

 

_Three months later…_

Sherlock had only gone along to this date because Mycroft had threatened once again to withdraw his puzzle privileges. It gnawed away at him that he was so dependent on his brother – Mycroft was no better than a dealer, extracting promises from Sherlock in exchange for supplying what he needed.

Speaking of dealers, Sherlock’s automatic sweep of this one brought him to some interesting conclusions.

“Meet me in the back alley, four minutes.” Sherlock muttered before they’d even exchanged proper greetings. The man, scruffy in a genuine, ‘I’m not doing this to look cool I just couldn’t be arsed shaving for three days’ kind of way, nodded, eyes blank. Sherlock left first, loitering behind a dumpster before the other guy met him there.

“I’m after some stuff.” Sherlock told him.

“Yeah, I’m Noel.” The guy replied. “And I don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock sighed. He hated when they got all paranoid. He pulled a handful of fifty-pound bills out of his pocket and held them up. “I would very much like to purchase illegal drugs, preferably high quality cocaine, if it’s not too much trouble.”

Noel looked at him, squinting as though the words ‘undercover’ and ‘police’ might appear on his forehead at any given moment. “So we didn’t meet here for a shag, then?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“Not even a quick BJ? I’ll front you the score.” Noel’s voice was plaintive.

“I can pay.” Sherlock waved the money again. It was far too much but he didn’t care – it wasn’t the money, it was finding an unexpected source that Mycroft couldn’t trace. Mummy must have picked this one on her own, he thought.

Noel shrugged and pulled a couple of baggies out of his pocket, glancing around automatically as he handed them over, grabbing at Sherlock’s money.

“Thank you.” Sherlock said. He stepped closer. “If anyone asked, I did indeed suck your cock, that’s why we stepped back here.” Noel nodded, eyes wide, before Sherlock turned and left him alone in the filthy alleyway.

 

_Four months later…_

Another joke of a date, and Mycroft had finally done what he’d been threatening to do – withdrawn Sherlock’s puzzles. He’d sent a team in to search 221b Baker Street first, of course. Sherlock had watched them work, knowing their visit was the harbinger of his doom. What kept him from ranting was the knowledge that no drugs had entered his flat in a long, long time – there was nothing to find.

When they’d gone, he checked his watch. Just gone 4.30pm. Any minute now, Mrs. Hudson would be – and there she went, out the door at 4.35 on the dot, punctual as ever to her bridge club. As soon as she’d gone, Sherlock bounded down the stairs and into her flat, removing his stash from inside the Christmas pudding bowl – she only ever used it in November for making the pudding. Looking at the fine white powder, Sherlock considered. Mycroft would come, of course, but not quickly enough, Sherlock knew. He’d get it all ready down here then take it back to the comfort of his bedroom, giving himself those few extra moments of bliss before the inconvenience of paramedic intervention.

Sherlock eased down onto his bed, the relief flowing through his veins with the careful 7% solution he’d just prepared. A small part of him was disappointed that he’d caved, but it was wiped away like chalk off a blackboard as the calmness spread through his body. All those hours wasted, he thought dreamily to himself. Now he could forget about it, forget the grinding boredom of nothing to do, his mind racing and stagnating at the same time.

 _At least I won’t have to go on another stupid date_ , Sherlock thought – his last coherent thought before he and the blackness embraced each other.

+++

“Mr. Holmes?”

Urgh, already? Sherlock’s mind replied. It seemed like only a moment ago that he’d drifted off, and here was a voice breaking into his bliss. He felt hands pushing on him, rolling him over; the sensation was alarmingly unbalanced, making him wonder if he was floating on an unsteady boat.

“Whaa,” he tried, and a calm voice sounded again, close to his ear.

“It’s alright, Mr. Holmes. My name’s John and I’m a paramedic. I’m here to help you. We’re going to take you to hospital and keep an eye on you for a while.”

The word ‘hospital’ sent alarms blaring through Sherlock’s mind palace, where he’d been happily watching the light change through pane-glass windows.

“No!” he shouted, trying to stand up. His arms and legs wouldn’t work, though, and he was flailing instead; one of his fists connected with something hard. There was a grunt of pain, then a stumble and a bigger groan as someone crashed into something.

“Philip?” John’s voice sounded concerned.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Bloody users.” The voice was higher pitched and whiny, Sherlock noted. He sounded a lot like…the thought drifted away. Unimportant, thought Sherlock.

“I’ll call it in.” John said, his voice moving further away. For some reason that wasn’t good, Sherlock realised. He heard the murmur of John’s voice recede then approach, catching the last few words. “Yeah, thanks Greg. Standard, but necessary, you know what the policy’s like. Cheers, mate.”

“Sherlock, your vitals are stable so we’re just going to wait here for a bit.” John’s voice was back, which Sherlock found comforting. The sound made the sun shine brighter in his mind palace, the colors dancing vigorously under the illumination. Interesting.

John’s voice stopped for a while, and Sherlock drifted off, jolting awake again when he heard new voices. He struggled to open his eyes, vision blurry. He strained to see the new person, a police officer, reasonably senior, divorced, chronic back pain. His brain wasn’t completely atrophied, then.

“Hi, John,” the new person said.

John spoke to him. “Greg, thanks for coming. This is Sherlock Holmes,” a snort of disbelief at his name, “he’s affected by drugs, probably cocaine. He wasn’t happy when I mentioned hospital and when he waved his arm around Philip copped one in the temple. He tripped backwards into the cabinet and he’s bruised some ribs. You know the new policy, even if Philip’s not going to press charges, and there was nothing in it, seriously, we need a copper to sign off on the incident report.” Greg seemed to know what was going on, nodding as John spoke, eyes roaming curiously over Sherlock.

“A bit more with it now, mate?” Greg asked of Sherlock.

“A little,” Sherlock replied, adding smugly, “If you’d let her have the bed, you’ve have been able to buy a new one that supports your back better. Just a thought.” Greg and John gaped at Sherlock for a moment.

“Did you tell him…” Greg asked John.

John shook his head adamantly. “Not a word.”

“How, then?” Greg asked Sherlock.

Sherlock shrugged, uncomfortable under the intense scrutiny. “Observation and deduction. Not difficult.”

Without taking his eyes off Sherlock, Greg jerked a thumb at John. “Do him.”

Sherlock sighed. He was, after all, still technically high. His mind far slower than usual, he looked John over, finally saying, “You were an Army doctor, invalided out for a genuine injury, though it manifests as a psychosomatic limp. Your therapist believes you were damaged by the war, but it’s the peace that drives you mad. Never married, either 1 or 2 on the Kinsey scale, though most people believe you’re exclusively heterosexual.” He stopped speaking, the effort of concentrating having exhausted him.

“Brilliant,” John breathed. Before Sherlock could process that response, a most unwelcome voice made itself known.

“Sherlock.”

“Sorry, who are you?” The copper (name unimportant, deleted) asked.

“Mycroft Holmes. I am Sherlock’s brother and for want of a better term, guardian.” He turned his attention to John. “We would prefer to avoid hospitals if at all possible.”

As John opened his mouth to protest, Sherlock said clearly, “I’ll stay here, with John to monitor me. Arrange it, Mycroft.” And he rolled over, ignoring the three speechless idiots and hoping for just a little more bliss from his very expensive high.

_One day later…_

_< 8.19am> John is moving in to Baker Street. Alert your surveillance teams. SH_

<8.22am> That was quick. MH

_< 8.24am> Mummy will be thrilled, I know. SH_

<8.25am> For both of us. MH

_< 8.29am> Ahh. The copper. SH_

<8.31am> Gregory. MH

_< 8.40am> That’s what I said. SH_

<8.42am> It’s not, but no matter. I suggest you inform Mummy before she arranges another date. MH

_< 8.43am> Done. SH_

<8.49am> I will have new puzzles couriered over. MH

_< 8.51am> No need. Sex is an acceptable substitute and John is an enthusiastic participant. SH_

<8.53am> Delightful to know. MH

<9.17am> Should John no longer meet your needs, Gregory assures me that the Yard would be pleased to offer you real puzzles on which to work. MH

_< 9.20am> I don’t foresee the former ever happening. John and I will present ourselves to Graham’s office tomorrow at some point. SH_

<9.26am> Gregory. MH

_< 9.27am> Whatever. SH _

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	14. Sherlock Goes Speed Dating; Mycroft Does Not

This was probably the best deal he was going to get – otherwise it could drag on for _ages_. At least this way it would be over in one evening. If there was one thing Sherlock was good at, it was appearing to be sincere while driving people away. Three hours out of his life for a lifetime of quiet on the matter from his mother.

“Deal.” Sherlock said, loud enough for Mummy to hear. “Mycroft?”

“No, brother, I’m not sure speed dating is for me. I’ll leave the choosing up to Mummy for the time being.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and tuned out of the rest of Mycroft’s conversation with Mummy, no doubt organizing the details of his next date. Urgh. Now that he was committed to going to this odious event, it seemed less achievable, being _nice_ to people. Mycroft closed the phone and started talking to him – something vaguely threatening about him making an effort, how boring – so Sherlock simply waited for a red light, opened the door and stepped out of the car.

+++

By Friday night, his mood had deteriorated from ‘annoyed’ to ‘actively aggravating people’. Mrs. Hudson knew him well enough to leave him alone, the shouting and smashed glassware clue enough for her. He didn’t even see her as he stalked downstairs, part of him wondering why he was even bothering. He knew that in this kind of mood he was as likely to find someone interested in him as he was to find the secret to eternal life. Stopping on the street, Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. There was no point doing this unless he could at least make a passable facsimile of a person people might like to date. A game, then. He decided that he’d play a part, deduce what his conversation partner wanted and do his best to deliver within the no doubt constricted time frame. Decision made, Sherlock opened his eyes and continued on his way. His procrastination meant he would arrive with very few moments before the event started, restricting his preliminary deduction time; just another challenge, he told himself.

+++

An hour later, Sherlock wished he’d chosen the Grindr option. Surely running away from lecherous men once a month was preferable to this? Of the eight men he’d conversed with, he’d played the same part with four of them to great effect – a manly-but-not-butch man, interested in sports but not obsessed; thinking about children but not committed either way; steady white collar job and no pets. Bor-ING. Of the other four, two warranted the gushing ‘I’d love kids oh you HAVE kids that’s GREAT’ speech, one was there purely to get laid and the other was as uninterested in Sherlock as Sherlock was in him. No challenge at all.

The emcee had announced a break before they continued with the rest of their dates; Sherlock made a direct line to the bar, downing a double Scotch in quick time and ordering another. He was certain that seven of the eight men would indicate their interest in meeting him again (not the last one, obviously, they’d barely spoken after he’d looked at Sherlock and announced, “I don’t date white guys.”). No challenge at all. Contemplating his Scotch, he wondered if it would be more challenging if he was drunk? Possibly, but it would be a fine line. A faint spark of interest flared and then died.

“No-pe.” He said aloud, popping the ‘p’ before throwing back the second drink.

“What?” A voice sounded behind him, aggressive and loud.

“I beg your pardon?” Sherlock asked wearily, turning to address the speaker. It was a man he hadn’t met yet, but who had clearly been embracing the potential of the drunken date. He was clutching a Scotch of his own, and when Sherlock turned he stabbed his finger into Sherlock’s chest.

“Did you just say, ‘Nope,’ to me?” The man asked.

Sherlock considered his options before answering blandly, “No-pe.” He was ready when the man swung at him – he’d telegraphed from a mile away – and sidestepped, letting momentum throw the man into the bar without need for him to lay a finger on the drunken fool. With a snort of derision, Sherlock turned and walked out of the bar. He was done with this ridiculous excuse for a social event, Mummy and Mycroft be damned.

In frustration and the awareness that he’d just thrown back four drinks in as many minutes, Sherlock strode up the street, hoping the cold night air would cool his simmering temper and sober him up a little. He paid no attention to where he was going, until he noticed police tape cordoning off an alleyway ahead. Curious, he crossed the road, watching the officers work and listening as they threw around theories. He waited a whole three minutes before impatiently ducking under the tape for a closer look.

“Oi, you can’t come under here!” An objection, but he ignored it – so much data, painting a picture of what obviously happened here. Nothing at all like the theory he’d overheard.

He frowned, addressing the grey-haired man who’d approached him. “Are you being deliberately obtuse or do you seriously believe this might be a suicide?”

The man blinked. “Who the hell are you?” he asked, quite belligerently, Sherlock thought. Irritating, but not boring. At last. He turned and started reeling off his observations and deductions, giving several reasons this could not be a suicide as well as a number of point of evidence that would surely lead them to the killer (well, not _surely_ , but he could hope).

They all looked stunned at the simple piece of deduction, and the grey haired man spoke first. “I’m DI Lestrade. You never told me your name.”

“Sherlock Holmes.” He replied, turning to leave. At a waved hand from Lestrade, one of the uniforms stepped in front of Sherlock, blocking his path. Huffing out an exasperated breath, Sherlock changed direction, only to have his arm gripped firmly by the same uniformed officer.

“Smells like he’s had a few, boss.” There was a note of triumph in her voice.

Sherlock heard the DI sigh. As he was handcuffed, Lestrade stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Look, that was brilliant that stuff, but I have no idea who the hell you are. For all I know you’re the one that put this body here. So I’m going to hold you for public drunkenness until we can get a few things sorted out.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Call my brother.”

Having just pulled out his mobile, Lestrade raised an eyebrow. “Your brother?”

“You can either call Mycroft and have this sorted in an hour, or take me in and spend the rest of the night chasing it instead of following the evidence I pointed out to you.”

“You pointed out…we did find it first, you know!”

“Some of it.” Sherlock muttered to himself. The DI shot him a dark look as he dialed the number Sherlock dictated. After a short conversation, he returned the phone to his pocket, running one hand through his hair. “Sit him over there, lose the cuffs.” He instructed the woman still holding Sherlock. He pointed his finger emphatically at Sherlock. “You sit, and you wait. When your brother arrives we’ll figure this out.” He gestured to Sherlock’s hands, now free. “I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, don’t prove me wrong, okay?”

The trust Lestrade was placing in him was tiny, really – technically he couldn’t leave, and the uniformed officer had clearly been assigned his guard; yet he was allowed to walk himself over to sit on a nearby step, rather than sit handcuffed in a secure van. The sensation was unfamiliar, and it took a few moments before Sherlock could identify the strange warmth in his chest. It was somewhere between gratitude and satisfaction. One thing he did know was that his mind was clear and calmer than it had been in a long while.

The ten minutes or so it took Mycroft to arrive gave Sherlock time to think. That one small deduction, and the DI’s reaction to it, had cleared his mind like nothing else, even the puzzles Mycroft provided. The fact that Lestrade did not treat him as the freak the world generally accepted him to be was also….nice, he thought reluctantly.

When Mycroft did arrive, dramatic black sedan and all, Sherlock watched as Lestrade strode over, the two men talking, quite formally at first. As Sherlock watched their body language evolve (he could have read their lips, but why bother) he wanted to throw his hands up in disgust. Mycroft was flirting, for goodness sake – and the copper was flirting back.

“It’s advisable that you allow me to leave before this saccharine exchange causes me to vomit on your crime scene.” Sherlock declared, having approach unnoticed by the pair.

Lestrade turned and looked at him, assessing with a keener eye this time. “We have a backlog of cases, and I could use someone with your skill at,” he turned to Mycroft here, “deductive reasoning, was it?” Mycroft nodded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure he’ll sleep with you even if you don’t offer me a job.” He said to Lestrade, enjoying the squirming and blushing his comment generated.

“He means, ‘thank you,’” Mycroft said, his eyes shooting daggers at his brother.

Sherlock smirked back. “Call me if there’s anything interesting.”

“I don’t have you number!” Lestrade called after him.

“You’re a detective, find it!” Sherlock called back over his shoulder. He allowed himself a small grin – this could be interesting. Far more interesting than anything Mycroft could provide.

_Six months later…_

“So your Mum’s given up then?” Mike asked, leaning against the bench.

Sherlock answered absently as he worked. “Mycroft is sickeningly in love, which appears to satisfy her need in that regard, at least.” Mike made an interrogatory noise, and Sherlock added, “She’s convinced Mrs. Hudson I need a flat mate. Unsurprisingly, the search has not gone well.”

He looked up at Mike, a brief self-mocking gaze, before returning his focus to the problem at hand – an actual hand, reeled in by an unfortunate fisherman.

“I must be a hard man to find a flat mate for.” Sherlock mused aloud.

“I believe you’re right there.” Mike Stamford agreed in his affable way. Heaving himself up, he added, “I’m off for lunch actually. You want anything?”

“No thanks, Mike, unless you can find me a flat mate.”

Mike chuckled as he left, deciding a walk through Regent’s Park would be in order. Maybe he’d get lunch from the Criterion, it was nearby. And who knew, a flat mate for Sherlock might just walk on by…

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	15. Sherlock and Mycroft Go Speed Dating; Things Go Very Well

This was probably the best deal he was going to get – otherwise it could drag on for _ages_. At least this way it would be over in one evening. If there was one thing Sherlock was good at, it was appearing to be sincere while driving people away. Three hours out of his life for a lifetime of quiet on the matter from his mother.

“Deal.” Sherlock said, loud enough for Mummy to hear. “Mycroft?”

The elder brother sighed. “Deal. Speed dating next Friday night, then.”

“Deal.” Mummy echoed. “I would like to hear about it afterwards, boys. Perhaps lunch at the house on the Sunday?”

“Yes, Mummy.” Mycroft replied, and they hung up.

“An interesting compromise, Mycroft.” This was as close as he would get to thanking his brother.

“Don’t thank me yet, Sherlock.” He looked hard at his brother. “I know exactly how charming you can be. If you don’t make an effort at this, there will be consequences. Those puzzles you do for me could certainly become ‘eyes only’, if they are available at all.” Sherlock scowled. He knew this meant that he’d have to sit in a secure room, windowless and cold to access the puzzles, a process he loathed. He also knew that Mycroft would not hesitate to go through with his threat. Sherlock had already pushed him hard in this whole mess.

“Of course, brother mine.” Sherlock replied airily. He certainly felt like he’d dodged a bullet. No more Grindr, thank goodness. Just one evening to endure before freedom.

+++

Sherlock had insisted on meeting Mycroft at the pub – “I work best alone, Mycroft” – and he was glad he’d done so. He had arrived at 7.58, wanting as little ‘casual chat’ time as possible before the official start of this abomination. He faked a smile at Carl, who was organizing the event, scrawled his name on a sticky label and slapped it on his lapel, hoping the residue would not damage his suit. He’d chosen carefully – not his best suit, that he wore when he would need to charm someone, nor the baggy old suit, a costume really, which was used exclusively for undercover work. This was one of his everyday suits, but on the ‘nicer’ end of the spectrum. He wanted to appear to have made an effort to Mycroft without actually appealing to more men than absolutely necessary. A quick scan of the room brought an overwhelming amount of data into his mind; he stopped suddenly at the onslaught, only to have someone bump into his back.

“Oh, sorry,” a voice came from behind him. Sherlock turned to throw a brief smile of reassurance at the clumsy oaf. The man was shorter than he, substantially so; his bearing was confident, however, and his smile was easy and genuine.

“Running late, I’m not paying enough attention.” The man explained.

“Not a problem.” Sherlock replied. He hesitated, wanting to continue the conversation, before turning away. He caught Mycroft’s eye, scowling as his brother smirked at him. Sherlock wiggled his fingers in an exaggerated wave and turned away, almost knocking over the same man who’d bumped into him.

“Oof! Hey, I guess that makes us even.” The man was almost criminally easy going, Sherlock thought irritably. “I’m John.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when a gong sounded. The room buzzed for a moment before the men gathered there fell silent.

“Hi everyone! I’m Carl, I greeted you all when you came in. Welcome to speed dating!” He paused as applause rippled around the room. Sherlock did not clap. John did, and he noticed Sherlock not clapping, raising an eyebrow at him, before smirking a little before focusing on Carl again. Sherlock frowned, wanting to ask what exactly John meant by that expression, but Carl had begun speaking again.

“Okay, here’s how it works. We’ve twenty-four guys here, and twelve tables set up over here.” He indicated a large U of tables. Each had water and drinking glasses, two sheets of card and two pens. He outlined the process, which was fairly straightforward; everyone would have a short, dedicated conversation with everyone else. Sherlock had to admit it was an ingenious system; ultimately, he would have twenty-three, four minute conversations over just over two hours, with a short break in the middle. _Two and a half hours and I can be done with this ridiculousness,_ he thought to himself. Without thinking, he glanced left to see how John had reacted to the explanation. He was nodding, Sherlock saw, looking intently at Carl as he spoke.

“Okay,” Carl cried, bringing Sherlock back from his contemplation of John, “Let’s get started, shall we? Take a seat. Remember, take your card with you each time, it will tell you which seat to move to next and you can make a note for each person as you go.” The group shifted as men moved over to the tables, the air filling with the sound of chairs being pulled back and voices greeting each other.

From this point on, Sherlock found himself stuck in a loop of repetition that surely deserved its own circle of Hell. _Dante had never experienced speed dating, or there would have been eight circles_ , Sherlock mused as the grammar school teacher in front of him demonstrated exactly why he was single. The men blurred together until they appeared in Sherlock’s mind palace as a reel of sameness:

“Hi, howareya, hello, pleased to meet you, I’m…”

“Sherlock, that’s unusual, is that a family name, I bet you’ve never met another, what did you do to your parents to warrant that, better than the last bloke, he’s called Mycroft…”

“I’m a teacher, I work for my father, I’m unemployed, I’m a student, a lawyer, a whatever…”

“Wow, you can’t talk about your work, that must be important/exciting/boring/if you did would you have to kill me?”

This last comment had drawn a flat, “yes.” from Sherlock. The man, twelfth in Sherlock’s conversational round-about, was a barely tolerable surveyor from Bristol. He hadn’t mentioned it, but he lived with his sister, who wasn’t impressed that his gambling habit sucked up his wage, but she needed the help with her kids, so she didn’t kick him out. So dreadfully boring, Sherlock sighed. The most interesting thing he’d done was his expression when Sherlock confirmed that he would be killed if Sherlock talked about his job. He had no idea if Sherlock was kidding, and if he was honest with himself, neither was Sherlock.

“Okay, let’s take a break, ten minutes to visit the loo or refill your drink, then we’re back to it!” Carl called enthusiastically. Sherlock leaned back, shooting Harry (Harvey?) a completely false smile which dropped from his face the second the man had scrambled away. Sherlock hadn’t bothered filling in his card; he wasn’t going to express interest in anybody anyway. He scanned the room again, wondering what the next eleven ‘dates’ would be like. He hadn’t spoken to Mycroft yet (couldn’t wait to tell him how many men had commented that Sherlock was less ridiculous a name than Mycroft – four, so far). _Nor have you spoken to John_ , a little voice in his head reminded him. He was increasingly restless in this process, as the stream of similarly common men moved past him. It wasn’t until they had started again, _three more down, eight to go_ , and Sherlock sat down at his new seat without looking at the face opposite.

“I never did get your name earlier.” The voice from across the table was familiar.

“John.” Sherlock said, thrown off balance by his presence. _Idiot_ , he berated himself.

The other man blinked, a smile breaking across his face _like a sunrise_ , Sherlock thought irrationally. “Don’t tell me you’re John too?”

He was teasing, Sherlock realised. “Sherlock.” He introduced himself.

“I’m guessing you’re here under duress, then.” John said, leaning forward on his elbows. He really was very comfortable in himself, Sherlock thought.

“That’s a terrible jumper.” Sherlock blurted.

John raised his eyebrows, looking down at the oatmeal cable knit he wore. “It’s not that bad, is it?” he protested mildly.

“It is.” Sherlock replied. He knew how rude that last comment had been – it was exactly the right thing to say in order to stop John from wanting to meet him again, something he’d done intentionally a dozen times already that night. So why did he feel both guilty and relieved that John hadn’t appeared to be offended in the least?

“Oh well, I like it.” John replied easily. “You never answered my question, either – who’s dragged you along tonight?”

“How do you know I’ve been dragged along?” Sherlock shot back.

“You look like you’d rather be dissecting roadkill than be here. You arrived five seconds before it started but you didn’t look flustered, you didn’t clap when Carl started the night off, and you haven’t ticked a single name you’d like to see again.” Sherlock felt his jaw drop, though he kept his mouth from falling open. _That must be what it feels like_ , he thought.

“Very good,” he allowed, and John grinned. “I think I might even be able to match your deductions, Doctor.”

John raised an eyebrow then waved a hand in invitation. “Go ahead,” he said, the challenge and amusement in his voice.

“You’re a doctor, Army trained, invalided back from either Iraq or Afghanistan in the last two months. You limp, though you didn’t bring your cane tonight. That complaint is psychosomatic, though your therapist thinks it’s because you nightmares keep drawing you back to the war, rather than the truth – that you miss the excitement of action.” Sherlock stopped, though he could have added, _you’ve contemplated ending your life on a regular basis since returning to London, family appears to care but not enough to help on a regular basis, you have at least one good friend, probably the same one that dragged you along here tonight._

“Brilliant,” John breathed, his eyes lighting up. “Completely amazing. How the hell did you know all that?”

Before Sherlock had a chance to reply, the gong sounded, ending their time together. He desperately wanted to continue his conversation, and Sherlock thought he saw disappointment in John’s eyes too. John stood, winked at Sherlock and tapped his card before moving off to his next date. Sherlock sat frozen until he had to get up for the next man sitting in his place. Automatically, he made his way to his next conversation.

“Good evening,” Mycroft drawled from across the table. “Going well?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Swimmingly.” He retorted. “According to five men, my name is less ridiculous than yours.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow at this. “Fascinating.”

“What of your evening, brother dear?” Sherlock replied. “Any goldfish catch your eye?” To Sherlock’s immense surprise, Mycroft blushed as only a redhead can, deep and fast.

“Mycroft St. John Holmes, you _have_ met someone! Which one? Good grief, don’t tell me he reciprocated?” Sherlock asked, having to work hard not to crow in delight. He craned his neck, looking at each man in turn, trying to deduce which had caught his brother’s eye.

“None of your business, Sherlock. I can’t possibly know if this person is interested until the end of the evening.” The way he pressed his lips together and fiddled with his pen told Sherlock that he was actually hoping his interest was returned; this thought was sobering. _Even Mycroft’s found someone he might want to see again_.

They sat in silence for the remaining time, each lost in their own thoughts until the gong pulled them back.

In the remaining six dates, only one man was worthy of conversation, though Sherlock could not imagine being attracted to him. His conversation with the Detective Inspector about the history and development of modern forensic methodology was quite satisfying for a four minute conversation.

“Nice to meet you,” he said at the end, rising to shake Sherlock’s hand.

“Likewise,” Sherlock found himself saying with more sincerity than he expected.

“Okay! Great night, guys, I hope you all met at least one person you felt a connection to. If you can fill in your cards and drop them to Jesse,” a blond next to Carl waved a hand in acknowledgement of his name, “we’ll collate them and you can collect your matches and their contact details as you leave. Just give us half an hour or so first, okay? Thanks so much for coming tonight!” There was another smattering of applause, and Sherlock took the moment to escape outside. The night had not gone exactly as he expected, and the change unnerved him. Turning up the road, he strode past the window of the pub then leaned against the wall, his head rolling back and his eyes closing as he reviewed the evening.

He had met twenty very boring people (as expected). He had met one marginally interesting person (moderately surprising). Mycroft’s name had been confirmed by an unbiased group as more ridiculous than his own (immensely satisfying). Mycroft had met someone he actually liked (very unexpected). Sherlock had found someone interesting enough to want to continue their conversation (had not occurred to him as a possibility at all).

As he thought about John, Sherlock wondered if John would mark ‘interested’ on his card. Had John wanted to continue their conversation? He seemed to be someone easy to talk to, perhaps all his conversation had been similar. Yet thinking of him made Sherlock tingle, and surely he hadn’t imagined the disappointment shown in John’s face when the gong cut off their conversation? Shoving his hands in the pockets of his Belstaff, Sherlock felt something. He pulled it out, realising he hadn’t actually submitted his own card to Jesse. John wouldn’t know that he was interested… _was_ he interested? He examined the card carefully – still blank. Without thinking too hard, Sherlock drew out his pen and wrote ‘John’ under the heading, ‘Interested’. He wondered if he could go back into the pub and give his card to Jesse. What if John had left already, or worse yet, hadn’t marked ‘Interested’ against Sherlock’s name? The embarrassment of that scenario seared his heart, and Sherlock made to stuff the card back into his pocket. _Stupid idea,_ he thought to himself, pushing down the disappointment.

“How am I meant to know if you’re interested or not if you don’t submit your card?” John’s voice sounded next to Sherlock.

“Oh,” Sherlock breathed, turning John.

“I saw you leave,” John smiled and handed his own card to Sherlock. He took it without thinking, tearing his gaze from John’s to look at it. Several names had been penned in under the heading ‘Interested’ – all had been crossed out, except the last one. ‘Sherlock’.

He looked at John, speechless. John shrugged. “Those other guys were moderately interesting.” He said. “You were…” his voice trailed off and he shook his head.

Sherlock cleared his throat and offered, “Enthralling? Captivating? Fascinating?”

John nodded, grinning. “Bit full of yourself, hey?”

“I was talking about you, John.” Sherlock replied quietly. John’s face sobered a little, as he looked into Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock passed his own card over, bearing the single name, ‘John’.

John smiled. “Dinner?” he asked.

“Starving.” Sherlock replied automatically. And actually, he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You have to decide: Does Mycroft’s ‘goldfish’ reciprocate his interest?  
> If NO, go to [chapter 17](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26170623).  
> If YES, go to [chapter 18](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26170641).


	16. Sherlock and Mycroft Go Speed Dating; It's Mediocre At Best

This was probably the best deal he was going to get – otherwise it could drag on for _ages_. At least this way it would be over in one evening. If there was one thing Sherlock was good at, it was appearing to be sincere while driving people away. Three hours out of his life for a lifetime of quiet on the matter from his mother.

“Deal.” Sherlock said, loud enough for Mummy to hear. “Mycroft?”

The elder brother sighed. “Deal. Speed dating next Friday night, then.”

“Deal.” Mummy echoed. “I would like to hear about it afterwards, boys. Perhaps lunch at the house on the Sunday?”

“Yes, Mummy.” Mycroft replied, and they hung up.

“An interesting compromise, Mycroft.” This was as close as he would get to thanking his brother.

“Don’t thank me yet, Sherlock.” He looked hard at his brother. “I know exactly how charming you can be. If you don’t make an effort at this, there will be consequences. I expect you to make enough of an effort to make at least a couple of matches, Sherlock. Those puzzles you do for me could certainly become ‘eyes only’, if they are available at all.” Sherlock scowled. He knew this meant that he’d have to sit in a secure room, windowless and cold to access the puzzles, a process he loathed. He also knew that Mycroft would not hesitate to go through with his threat. Sherlock had already pushed him hard in this whole mess.

“Of course, brother mine.” Sherlock replied airily. He certainly felt like he’d dodged a bullet. No more Grindr, thank goodness. Just one evening to endure before freedom.

+++

Sherlock had insisted on meeting Mycroft at the pub – “I work best alone, Mycroft” – and he was glad he’d done so. He had arrived at 7.58, wanting as little ‘casual chat’ time as possible before the official start of this abomination. He faked a smile at Carl, who was organizing the event, scrawled his name on a sticky label and slapped it on his lapel, hoping the residue would not damage his suit. He’d chosen carefully – not his best suit, that he wore when he would need to charm someone, nor the baggy old suit, a costume really, which was used exclusively for undercover work. This was one of his everyday suits, but on the ‘nicer’ end of the spectrum. He wanted to appear to have made an effort to Mycroft without actually appealing to more men than absolutely necessary. A quick scan of the room brought an overwhelming amount of data into his mind; he stopped suddenly at the onslaught, only to have someone bump into his back.

“Oh, sorry,” a voice came from behind him. Sherlock turned to throw a brief smile of reassurance at the clumsy oaf.

“Running late, I’m not paying enough attention.” The man extrapolated.

“Not a problem.” Sherlock replied distractedly. He caught Mycroft’s eye, scowling as his brother smirked at him. Sherlock wiggled his fingers in an exaggerated wave and turned away, almost knocking over the same man who’d bumped into him.

“Oof! Hey, I guess that makes us even.” The man was almost criminally easy going, Sherlock thought irritably. “I’m Andy.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply when a gong sounded. The room buzzed for a moment before the men gathered there fell silent.

“Hi everyone! I’m Carl, I greeted you all when you came in. Welcome to speed dating!” He paused as applause rippled around the room. Sherlock did not clap. Mycroft caught his eye and flicked him a message – _No matches, no puzzles._ Sherlock scowled as Carl continued.

“Okay, here’s how it works. We’ve twenty-four guys here, and twelve tables set up over here.” He indicated a large U of tables. Each had water and glasses, two sheets of card and two pens. He outlined the process, so that everyone would have an opportunity to talk to everyone else. Sherlock had to admit it was an ingenious system; ultimately, he would have twenty-three, four minute conversations over just over two hours, with a short break in the middle. _Two and a half hours and I can be done with this ridiculousness,_ he thought to himself. If he chose the least annoying men to flirt with, they would surely mark ‘Interested’ against his name; if he did the same, and was his usual dismissive self with the others, he should be able to meet Mycroft’s criterion with the minimum effort in subsequent dates.

“Okay,” Carl cried, bringing Sherlock back from his contemplation of tactics, “Let’s get started, shall we? Take a seat. Remember, take your card with you each time, it will tell you which seat to move to each time and you can make a note for each person as you go.” The group shifted as men moved over to the tables, the air filling with the sound of chairs being pulled back and voices greeting each other.

Despite his best intentions, Sherlock found himself stuck in a loop of repetition that surely deserved its own circle of Hell. _Dante had never experienced speed dating, or there would have been eight circles_ , Sherlock mused as the grammar school teacher in front of him demonstrated exactly why he was single. The men blurred together until they appeared in Sherlock’s mind palace as a reel of sameness:

“Hi, howareya, hello, pleased to meet you, I’m…”

“Sherlock, that’s unusual, is that a family name, I bet you’ve never met another, what did you do to your parents to warrant that, better than the last bloke, he’s called Mycroft…”

“I’m a teacher, I work for my father, I’m unemployed, I’m a student, a lawyer, a whatever…”

“Wow, you can’t talk about your work, that must be important/exciting/boring/if you did would you have to kill me?”

This last comment had drawn a flat, “yes.” from Sherlock. The man, twelfth in Sherlock’s conversational round-about, was a barely tolerable surveyor from Bristol. He hadn’t mentioned it, but he lived with his sister, who wasn’t impressed that his gambling habit sucked up his wage, but she needed the help with her kids, so she didn’t kick him out. So dreadfully boring, Sherlock sighed. The most interesting thing he’d done was his expression when Sherlock confirmed that he would be killed if Sherlock talked about his job. There was no way Sherlock could spend another four minutes with him, let alone another whole evening.

“Okay, let’s take a break, ten minutes to visit the loo or refill your drink, then we’re back to it!” Carl cried. Sherlock leaned back, shooting Harry (Harvey?) a completely false smile which dropped from his face the second he’d scrambled away. Sherlock hadn’t bothered filling in his card; he wasn’t going to express interest in anybody anyway. He scanned the room again, wondering what the next eleven ‘dates’ would be like. He hadn’t spoken to Mycroft yet (couldn’t wait to tell him how many men had commented that Sherlock was less ridiculous a name than Mycroft – four, so far). He was increasingly restless in this process, as the stream of similarly common men moved past him. How was he supposed to find matches amongst these boring people? Over half his dates were over and he hadn’t made enough of an effort for be certain of any of them wanting to see him again. With renewed determination, lest he be forced to endure another evening speed dating or worse, have the puzzles taken away, Sherlock focused on the man in front of him.

“Hi, I’m John.” The voice from across the table was warm and relaxed.

“John.” Sherlock repeated. Why was that plain, ordinary name so comforting when attached to this man, he wondered?

The other man blinked, a smile breaking across his face _like a sunrise_ , Sherlock thought irrationally. “Don’t tell me you’re John too?”

He was teasing, Sherlock realised. “Sherlock.” He introduced himself, flustered.

“I’m guessing you’re here under duress, then.” John said, leaning forward on his elbows. He really was very comfortable in himself, Sherlock thought.

“That’s a terrible jumper.” Sherlock blurted. John raised his eyebrows, looking down at the oatmeal cable knit he wore.

“It’s not that bad, is it?” he protested mildly.

“It is.” Sherlock replied. He knew how rude that last comment had been – it was exactly the right thing to say in order to stop John from wanting to meet him again, something he’d done a dozen times already that night. So why did he feel guilty and relieved that John hadn’t appeared to be offended in the least?

“Oh well, I like it.” John replied easily. “You never answered my question, either – who’s dragged you along tonight?”

“How do you know I’ve been dragged along?” Sherlock shot back.

“You look like you’d rather be dissecting roadkill than be here. You arrived five seconds before it started but you didn’t look flustered, you didn’t clap when Carl started the night off, and you haven’t ticked a single name you’d like to see again.” Sherlock felt his jaw drop, though he kept his mouth from falling open. _That must be what it feels like_ , he thought.

“Very good,” he allowed, and John grinned. “I think I might even be able to match your deductions, Doctor.” John raised an eyebrow, then waved a hand in invitation. “Go ahead,” he said, the challenge and amusement in his voice.

“You’re a doctor, Army trained, invalided back from either Iraq or Afghanistan in the last two months. You limp, though you didn’t bring your cane tonight. That complaint is psychosomatic, though your therapist thinks it’s because you nightmares keep drawing you back to the war, rather than the truth – that you miss the excitement of action.” Sherlock stopped, though he could have added, _you’ve contemplated ending your life on a regular basis since returning to London, family appears to care but not enough to help on a regular basis, you have at least one good friend, probably the same one that dragged you along here tonight._

John’s eyebrows rose. “Wow.” He offered, a complex expression on his face which Sherlock could not decipher. Before Sherlock had a chance to reply, the gong sounded, ending their time together. He desperately wanted to continue his conversation. John stood, smiled at Sherlock and tapped his card before moving off to his next date. Sherlock sat frozen until he had to get up for the next man sitting in his place. Automatically, he made his way to his next conversation.

“Good evening,” Mycroft drawled from across the table. “Going well?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Swimmingly.” He retorted. “According to five men, my name is less ridiculous than yours.”

Mycroft raised one eyebrow at this. “Fascinating.”

“What of your evening, brother dear?” Sherlock replied. “Any goldfish catch your eye?”

“There are several possibilities.” He replied.

“Ever the politician.” Sherlock retorted.

“There is no point speculating, Sherlock. I can’t possibly know if any of these people are interested until the end of the evening.” Mycroft pursed his lips, and Sherlock had the distinct impression his brother had had a John-like conversation of his own.

They sat in silence for the remaining time, each lost in their own thoughts.

Six more dates, only one man worthy of conversation, though Sherlock could not imagine being attracted to him. His conversation with the Detective Inspector about the history and development of modern forensic methodology was quite satisfying for a four minute conversation.

“Nice to meet you,” he said at the end, rising to shake Sherlock’s hand.

“Likewise,” Sherlock found himself saying with more sincerity than he expected.

“Okay! Great night, guys, I hope you all met at least one person you felt a connection to. If you can fill in your cards and drop them to Jesse,” a blond next to Carl waved a hand in acknowledgement of his name, “we’ll collate them and you can collect your matches and their contact details as you leave. Just give us half an hour or so first, okay? Thanks so much for coming tonight!” There was another smattering of applause, and Sherlock took the moment to write on his card. Hesitantly, he scrawled three names on the card, the only three men with whom he figured he’d have a change of reciprocation. He hoped like hell that they would mark him under ‘Interested’, or he’d be back to the endless Grindr rollercoaster.

Resolutely ignoring Mycroft and several men who tried to talk to him again (honestly, could they not take a hint?) Sherlock took out his phone, researching some of the points raised earlier with respect to forensic methodology while he considered the outcome of this evening.

He had met twenty very boring people (as expected). He had met one marginally interesting person (moderately surprising). Mycroft’s name had been confirmed by an unbiased group as more ridiculous than his own (immensely satisfying). Mycroft had met someone he actually liked (very unexpected). Sherlock had met two people with whom he had conducted satisfactory conversation for four minutes (extremely unexpected). He had no idea how John had reacted to his deduction; if only the gong had sounded thirty seconds later! In all likelihood he would have been angry, embarrassed, frightened; the typical response to his deductive reasoning. He suspected his answer would be in the cards. Patience already stretched thin, Sherlock saw another man determinedly approach him as though to engage him in conversation. Slipping off his chair, Sherlock brushed past the man and made a beeline for Carl, who had just finished collating the ‘Interested’ lists.

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock said, extending one hand impatiently.

“Right, here you go. Hope you found what you were looking for!” Carl said brightly. Sherlock swept outside, ignoring Mycroft, who was right behind him.

The brothers stood on the street, folded cards in their hands. Their eyes met for a moment, before they each opened the cards, revealing how many matches they had made, complete with contact details for each match.

“Well?” Sherlock asked. He offered Mycroft his own card, accepting Mycroft’s in return.

“Hmmmm.” Mycroft replied.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You have to decide how many matches each brother made.  
> If neither made any matches, go to [chapter 21](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766204).  
> If they each made one match, go to [chapter 22](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766255).  
> If they each made two matches, go to [chapter 23](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766330).


	17. Mycroft's Goldfish Does Not Reciprocate

Don't be silly, of course the Goldfish reciprocates! Go to [chapter 18](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26170641).

THE END.


	18. Mycroft's Goldfish Does Reciprocate

 

As he dropped his completed card with Jesse at the end of the night, Mycroft watched Sherlock stride toward the door. He wasn’t disappointed, as such; he’d not held particularly high hopes that Sherlock would actually show up, let alone participate to a point where someone would express interest in him. Speculatively, he eyed the Army Doctor following Sherlock; perhaps his brother had gained an admirer?

Mycroft sighed, turning away. He supposed he should wait to see if any of his conversations had resulted in a match; given the single name on his own sheet, it was highly unlikely. Only the Detective Inspector had held his interest, for reasons he couldn’t quite discern. The conversation had been above average, but it was something else too – a combination of his attentiveness and the patience he applied to Mycroft’s considered pauses and sometimes archaic speech. Adding his kind eyes and well balanced features and Mycroft found it an attractive package, one he privately hoped to see again. That wouldn’t happen unless he waited for the matches to be revealed, so Mycroft made his way to the bar. 

Once he’d ordered a Scotch (the best they had was surprisingly good), Mycroft took a seat half hidden by a giant fake plant, hoping to avoid any attention until he could make his escape. The rest of his ‘dates’ had ranged from extremely physically fit and vapid, to intelligent enough with terrible personal habits. His deductive abilities were invaluable in such a scenario, allowing him to gain more information in the few moments than others would gain in a whole evening. It did sometimes make for an excruciating three minutes of extraneous conversation, but Mycroft’s political experience had prepared him well for such an occasion.  

He’d only really agreed to this evening to ensure Sherlock’s attendance. Privately he thought his brother had a point; the thought process flickered across Sherlock’s face as he considered the original proposal, clear as text.  _ Better to get it over with _ . This horrendous Grindr plan of Mummy’s would simply drag on and on, drawing time and energy away from both Sherlock’s work and his own. A combination of compromise and manipulation had led both Mummy and Sherlock to a point where they were satisfied with this agreement; Mycroft only wished he could have extracted himself entirely.

“Penny for them.” An amused voice broke into his reverie.

Mycroft turned to see the Goldfish – more commonly known as, “Gregory,” he said in surprise.

“Greg.” He corrected gently, grinning at Mycroft. 

A flutter in his chest was an entirely new sensation, and Mycroft took a moment longer than usual to reply. “Of course, I apologise. Greg.”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were hiding.” Greg teased gently. A shot of warmth exploded through Mycroft, as one thought dominated his brain –  _ Greg’s flirting. _ Panic. Mycroft had never been involved in flirting on either side of the exchange – not seriously, at any rate. Politics and the wives of diplomats were an entirely different scenario.

“I am.” He replied, wanting the conversation to continue.

“Avoiding all the terrible men out there?” Greg asked in a lowered voice, glancing around at the group behind him. Mycroft felt his cheeks warm, and he lowered his gaze, embarrassed to be so transparent.

“It wasn’t a completely atrocious group tonight.” Greg went on easily.

“You sound as though you have some experience with this.” Mycroft said curiously.

Greg gave a wry laugh. “This’s my fourth speed dating event. I’ve had a few dates out of it, but the misses definitely outweigh the hits, if you get my meaning.” Mycroft nodded, suddenly aware of his heart thudding a little harder in his chest. He had no idea what to say – this was hardly the same as charming an Ambassador’s wife, but he tried, “I imagine it’s difficult to meet people without resorting to an event such as this.”

“Well, yes, that’s why we’re all here. Isn’t it?” Greg waved his glass at Mycroft. “Isn’t that why you’re here,” his tone turned a little mocking, “to find The One?”

“Good grief, no.” Mycroft replied without thinking, his eyes widening as he realised how rude he had just sounded. “My apologies, I meant no offense.” Greg was grinning at his flustered state, and Mycroft found himself blurting, “I was here with my brother.”

Greg nodded seriously, though his eyes twinkled. Composing himself somewhat, Mycroft explained, “My mother despairs of our bachelor state. She’s declared her horror at the family name dying out with us both. This was the agreement we made, we both attend this evening. Sherlock was less enthusiastic, so I promised to ensure he attended.” He deliberately left out all mention of Grindr. Nobody ever needed to know that, he decided.

“Sherlock? And Mycroft. Wow, your parents were not afraid to think outside the top 100 baby names, were they.” Greg said.

“Not at all.” Mycroft replied, and found himself smiling at Greg. As soon as he realised, of course, the thud of his heart accelerated once more, and he examined his empty glass with intent.

“Two things,” Greg said, shifting closer to Mycroft, so he was partly hidden by the plant. Mycroft raised an eyebrow in query, adjusting his gaze to allow for Greg’s new proximity. The barstool kept them almost of a height, even with Greg standing, but Mycroft found that his eyes were almost pinned by the intensity of Greg’s gaze. “One,” he began, his voice now lower in pitch and volume, creating an intimate space in the noisy bar, “I’d like to buy you a drink.”

“And two?” Mycroft dared, when Greg appeared to have finished.

Greg’s grin was almost affectionate this time, as he said, “You’re cute when you’re flustered, Mycroft.” He winked, then stepped around the corner of the bar, effectively leaving Mycroft while he got in the next round. Mycroft appreciated the space, given the clear flirting Greg was now doing.  _ I wonder if we matched? _ He thought almost desperately. Part of him wanted to know; the rest reasoned that it didn’t matter, since Greg was so clearly interested right now. That same part pointed out that given Greg’s behaviour it was highly likely that they would both have indicated their interest. 

“Remarkable.” Mycroft said aloud, hearing the astonishment in his voice.

“What is?” Greg asked, pushing past the tree to bring their drinks – the same amber liquid in two heavy glasses.

Confidence – not enough for a flood, but perhaps a generous trickle – moved through Mycroft, and he looked Greg in the eye as he said, “You are.” His lips turned upwards at the widening of Greg’s eyes, the slow smile as he registered the note of sincerity and daring in the simple reply. Without a word, they both moved their glasses forward, touching the rims gently in salute before tasting the Scotch.

“So, do you think you’ve matched with anybody?” Greg asked, a shade more casually than was natural.

Mycroft raised that eyebrow again, triggering the most delightful chuckle from Greg.

“I wrote a few names down,” Greg admitted. He screwed up his nose. “Better to err on the side of caution, I suppose.” Mycroft desperately wanted to ask if his name had been on the list – to hell with the reasoning – but there was no way he was going to put voice to that question.

“I would take the opposite view,” he replied. “I would rather leave with no match than match with someone I knew was not likely to be suitable.”

“Really,” Greg said, “and how many names did you write down?”

As Mycroft smiled challengingly at him, Jesse’s voice broke across the noise. “Alright, lads! We’re not kicking anyone out, but the matches are done, so when you leave make sure you pick up your card. Anyone you’ve matched with will be listed along with their contact details. Thanks for a great night!”

The noise level rose again as excited chatter broke out. Mycroft’s heart was thumping hard now as he fought the urge to jump up and fight his way to the table.

“They won’t let you collect your card until you’re leaving.” Greg’s voice cut into his mind. “I think they’ve had a few confrontations when one person has been interested and the other not. So in order to know, you have to leave.”

Mycroft just stared, wondering if he was truly that transparent. Greg grinned at him, placing one hand on his forearm as he leaned forward, not wanting to be overheard. “I’m a copper, remember? I read people for a living too.”

“Too?” Mycroft asked. 

It was Greg’s turn to raise an eyebrow. The cadence of his speech was mesmerizing, even with the almost lazy drawl he employed, and Mycroft listened, entranced. “You can’t talk about your work, but your suit and mannerisms say well off and highly intelligent. Something secret and well paid – probably in government, Queen and Country and all that. A private education, expensive but not unreasonable given your family’s wealth and social status. You learned deduction at a fairly young age and used your skill to advance quickly in your professional life.” Greg reeled off. Mycroft was speechless. 

Greg moved closer now, his hand sliding up to sit on Mycroft’s bicep, speaking almost into his ear, “Your speech says well off, private education. You spoke to Javier in Spanish and Thomas in French – well educated, highly intelligent. Your mother is worried about your family name, plus your unusual first name means an old family. Your suit, bearing and social manners shore up the private education and well paid job; someone with that background is more likely to be patriotic, a government job rather than private industry, and it explains the high level of secrecy.” His breath was warm now, ticking Mycroft’s ear; he added quietly, “I could see you reading people from across the room, and you did it to me before I’d even opened my mouth. I wonder how much you already knew before I’d started speaking?”

Mycroft’s mouth was dry; he’d been just about panting, eyes wide as he’d concentrated every molecule of his being on Greg – the line of his body taking up all the space before him; the weight of his hand, fingers flexing slightly against Mycroft’s bicep; that scent, the heady smell of aftershave that had enveloped Mycroft as Greg slowly encroached on his personal space. He took a mouthful of Scotch, regretting it as the fiery liquid burned on the way down. Greg still stood close, though he’d pulled back slightly, allowing him to look into Mycroft’s eyes. God only knew what he’d see, given the effect he was having; Mycroft was sure he was telegraphing his desire in a thousand ways.

“So did you want to leave, then?” Greg asked, his voice pitched low.

Mycroft shook his head no, before reconsidering. “We could leave together.” He said boldly, the trickle of confidence flowing faster, gushing through him. Greg’s interest was obvious, and he would be a fool to turn down even the chance this presented.

If he’d thought Greg would be surprised, Mycroft was disappointed – he simply grinned, shot back the last of his Scotch and stood up, allowing Mycroft to do the same. Stepping past the plant, Mycroft saw the bar was quite full, having opened to the public again after the event was finished. He hesitated at the table next to the door, spying the envelope bearing his misspelled name, “Microft”. Greg stood beside him, weighing his own envelope; he glanced at Mycroft.

“Don’t you want to know?” Greg asked him.

Mycroft considered the question, then smiled at Greg. “I already do.” He held the door for Greg, who looked puzzled but dropped his envelope back on the table.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Greg asked as they started walking. Neither asked about where they were going; it seemed an unimportant detail. Mycroft didn’t answer immediately; it wasn’t until they stood by the river that he said simply, “I only wrote down one name, and I’m fairly sure he’s interested.”

He didn’t look at Greg, but the sharp intake of breath told him Greg had heard. A few beats later, Mycroft turned, looking at the moonlight play over the silver-grey-silver of Greg’s hair.

“You didn’t pick up yours either.” Mycroft said, the amused tone now in his voice.

“I didn’t.” Greg admitted.

“Why is that?” Mycroft asked, smiling as they each stepped inwards, halving the distance between their bodies.

“Didn’t matter anymore.” He whispered, and Mycroft tasted the smile which shaped his lips, pressing soft skin together, the slight rasp of stubble an intoxicating contrast. Mycroft found himself sighing, fingers flexing against Greg’s hips; he could feel Greg’s fingers against the nape of his neck, the sliding of mouths together completing the three part tactile symphony. After a few glorious moments, the kiss lightened until they stood close, breathing the same air, eyes closed to better savour the intimacy.

“Remarkable,” one voice whispered, and two mouths smiled in agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP: You need to decide: Do Sherlock and Mycroft take their dates to the country to meet Mummy on Sunday?
> 
> If YES, go to [chapter 19.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26406618)  
> If NO, go to [chapter 20.](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26406648)


	19. Sherlock And Mycroft Do Take Their Dates to Meet Mummy

“Good morning, Mummy.”

“Sherlock! I’m so pleased you answered. How did last night go?”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Well, Mummy.”

“I knew it would!” Mummy crowed. “I’ll make sure we have an extra place set tomorrow for…what’s this young man’s name?”

A wave of panic crashed over Sherlock. “Er, I’m not sure he’ll be coming, Mummy.” He said, eyes widening in horror at the idea.

“Sherlock, why ever not? After all the fuss about this whole venture, I want to meet the man who wanted to get to know my son! Please, Sherlock, invite him tomorrow.”

Sherlock sighed. The fastest way to end this conversation and get back to John was to acquiesce. “Of course, Mummy.”

“And you tell him you want him to come, I expect to meet him tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mummy.” Sherlock hung up, squinting his eyes closed in a futile attempt to change the course of history. Unfortunately when he opened his eyes, Mummy was still expecting to see John tomorrow at lunch. A disaster in the making, he thought dismally.

+++

_Did you scoop a goldfish from the bowl last night? SH_

_Such a delightful metaphor, Sherlock. Yes, actually, I did. MH_

_I expect you are bringing your goldfish to this farce tomorrow. SH_

_His name is Gregory. MH_

_John is coming despite my assurances it wasn’t necessary. SH_

_As is Gregory. MH_

_+++_

The morning had played out exactly as Sherlock had expected. John had reluctantly agreed to accompany Sherlock to visit his parents, and the ride there had been overlaid with a false brightness. The tension in the air was palpable, and Sherlock had no idea how to make it dissipate. He and John seemed to begin a dozen conversations without finishing. The words stuck in his throat as he wondered how to broach the subject. _I know this is weird, it’s too soon, but it’s easier than trying to fight her._

When they arrived, Mycroft was already introducing Mummy to Greg, who looked as nervous as John felt. Introductions were made all around, Father mixing martinis and offering beers. John and Greg both accepted a beer, while Sherlock and Mycroft chose martinis, icy and smooth.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow at his brother, and the flat stare response told him all he needed to know about how he and Greg had spent the drive. _Just as awkward as John and I_ , Sherlock thought. He wondered if it was Mycroft or Greg that was stifling their conversation.

He turned back to tune into the conversation. As it turned out, Father had engaged John and Greg both in a conversation about shooting; sport shooting was one of his favourite pastimes, and all three men were well versed in different kinds of weaponry.

Mummy took the opportunity to speak to her sons. “They seem lovely, boys.”

“Thank you, Mummy.” Mycroft replied politely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and drank the rest of his martini in one large gulp. “John and I are going away, lest someone engage him in conversation about his sexual preferences.”

“Sherlock.” His mother chastised. Mycroft’s expression was mildly amused, and Sherlock wondered if his brother would do the same if he wasn’t so straight-laced. Snorting at the very idea, Sherlock turned and broke into his father’s conversation, taking John’s arm and saying, “Let me give you the tour, John.”

“Ahh, sure.” John replied, as Sherlock more or less dragged him out of the room. As soon as they’d exited the sitting room, John shook off Sherlock’s hand.

“Hey,” he said quietly, “are you okay?”

Sherlock stared at him, eyes wide. “Of course I am John.” He replied. “I just saved you from a conversation with my father and Graham.”

“Greg.”

“Yes, him.”

John looked at Sherlock, exasperated. Sherlock wondered if he would leave now, though there was really no way for him to get home from here. He ran one hand through his hair, frowning at the maelstrom in his head and bracing for John’s ‘I need to leave’ excuse. Instead, John smiled and reached up on tiptoe to kiss the corner of his mouth. “Come on,” he said, linking their hands, “show me around, then.”

Sherlock blinked at him before taking John upstairs. “There are all the usual rooms downstairs – library, dining room, ballroom, music room – but I spent most of my time in here.” He opened a door, allowing John to walk through ahead of him.

“Wow, Sherlock…” John breathed. This room had been knocked through with the one next door. Originally a bedroom, the bed and dresser now took up a tiny proportion of the space, overshadowed by the books, papers, and scientific equipment that covered every surface. Sherlock looked around the room, registering the oddly clean state of his childhood retreat. He ran one finger over the glassware stacked on a shelf; it was far neater than he must have left it, too.

“This was all yours?” John asked, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Yes.” Sherlock replied. John’s expression was something different, something he wasn’t sure he could read.

“We lived in a flat smaller than these two rooms.” John said without turning his head. “Me, mum, my sister, Dad when he was home and sober.”

Sherlock nodded, not sure how he should respond. He moved closer to John, shoulder leaning against the wall next to him, looking into the same room. “Sometimes I didn’t come out for days.” He ventured, picturing his eight year old self crouched in the corner, poring over a book. He felt John turn towards him, and shifted his weight so they could face each other, shoulder blades pressing into the faded wallpaper.

“Did…I mean, didn’t anyone come and see you?” John asked tentatively.

Sherlock shrugged, though he kept his eyes on John. “Mummy and Father didn’t know how to deal with Mycroft and I. We were…precocious.” John’s mouth twitched at the self-description. Encouraged, Sherlock went on, “Mycroft left for boarding school when I was six. After that, I was pretty much on my own.”

John looked aghast at that. “No nanny? Or, I dunno, tutor?”

“Tutors rarely had more knowledge than I did. Mycroft and I scared off all the nannies my parents presented.”

“On purpose?” John asked.

“Sometimes.” Sherlock admitted, a smile breaking through. John smiled back, then it faded.

“So just you, then.” John whispered. Sherlock nodded as John’s eyes roved over his face. John stepped in, his toes nudging Sherlock’s. “Must have been lonely.” Sherlock shrugged, eyes flicking down to John’s mouth and back. John’s mouth quirked, and Sherlock could feel his breath as he added, “Did you ever wish there was someone here with you?”

Sherlock swallowed, and without a thought he said, “Not until now.”

John rose a little, pressing his mouth to the same corner of Sherlock’s mouth as he had earlier. He shifted, dragging his mouth across to press in the opposite corner. Sherlock moaned, feeling John’s lips tighten as he smiled, before John finally settled his mouth against Sherlock’s, lips parting gently. The golden moment wound out as Sherlock found his arms gathering John closer, making sure he didn’t decide this was boring and leave. This was the least boring thing Sherlock has ever experienced, and he didn’t want it to end. When John finally pulled back, he stayed wrapped in the circle of Sherlock’s arms.

“I never had any space to myself.” John said quietly. “At home, in the Army…there was always someone there.”

“And now?” Sherlock asked, wondering if this was John’s way of letting him down gently.

“I think I was just waiting for the right person.” John murmured before his lips captured Sherlock’s again.

_Meanwhile, downstairs…_

“So Gregory, you and Mycroft met on Friday night.” With Sherlock and John disappearing, and Father muttering something about finding them, there was nowhere for Mycroft to hide Greg. As such, Mummy’s full attention was brought to bear on their guest.

“Yes, Mrs. Holmes, that’s right.” Greg replied easily. They were standing together, Greg holding his beer, Mycroft wishing for a large sinkhole to open up and swallow them.

“Oh call me Mummy, everybody does.”

Greg flicked a glance at Mycroft, who tried to send him a supportive look but feared he failed miserably.

“And what do you do for a living, Greg? Mycroft had told me nothing, of course.”

“I’m a Detective Inspector for Scotland Yard.” Greg replied.

“Oh, that’s wonderful!” She exclaimed. “Your family must be so proud.”

“Well, my parents are gone and my sister and I have a difficult relationship. My daughters just think it’s great that I can drive with the sirens on.”

Mummy made an interested noise then offered them another drink. While she turned to the drink trolley, Mycroft raised his eyebrows and mouthed, ‘daughters?’ Greg shrugged, and replied, ‘flustered?’ It was Mycroft’s turn to shrug, though there was a challenge in his eyes. Mummy had not embarrassed him yet, and with any luck…

“So you must not be entirely gay if you have daughters, Greg.” Nope. No luck at all, Mycroft thought to himself, renewing his wishes for a sinkhole. Greg’s mouth dropped open at the question, and he accepted the beer Mummy offered him automatically.

“Um…Well, I was married for a while. To a woman.” He replied. Mycroft closed his eyes in mortification.

“And your marriage ended because you told her you were attracted to men as well.” Mummy stated in an understanding manner.

“Mummy. That’s not really appropriate.” Mycroft interjected, though he knew his voice sounded weak.

“Actually Jeanette knew before we were married. It ended because she was sleeping with the girls’ piano teacher.” Greg said, smiling brightly at Mummy. He stepped closer to Mycroft, casually threading his fingers through Mycroft’s and squeezing firmly.

“Oh, dear.” Mummy said, clearly taken aback by Greg’s upfront answer.

“Yes, I’ve always identified as bisexual. I’ve found relationships to work more or less the same regardless of how either person identifies. Trust and honesty make it work.” Greg added conversationally. “I anticipate the same with Mycroft.” He shot Mycroft an affectionate smile as he directed his question to Mummy. “Was there anything else you’d like to know?”

“Well…” Mummy began, but Mycroft knew what was on her mind and there was no way he was going to listen to Greg calmly discuss his sexual preferences with Mummy.

“Unless you’d like to explain the term ‘power top’ and your personal preferences with respect to it, we need to leave this conversation.” Mycroft had turned his back to Mummy and whispered urgently in Greg’s ear. He felt Greg stiffen a little, then relax.

“Actually, Mummy, there are certain things I’d prefer to keep between Mycroft and myself, if you don’t mind.” Greg said smoothly, his smile apologetic.

“Of course.” She replied automatically. After a short pause, in which Mycroft shot her a ‘leave us alone please’ look, Mummy made an excuse about helping look for Sherlock, leaving Mycroft and Greg alone in the sitting room. Mycroft felt his face flush red again. He turned stiffly to Greg and said, “I am so sorry for her inappro-“

Greg cut him off with a kiss, pressing his mouth to Mycroft’s, arms sliding around his waist to pull him in close. Caught off balance, Mycroft grabbed at Greg’s shoulders, his mouth opening in surprise. Greg took the opportunity to lick a line along the inside of his lower lip. Groaning at the sensation, Mycroft pulled Greg closer, touching their tongues together, relishing the noise Greg made in appreciation. What started as a ‘shut up it’s fine’ kiss melted into something deeper, the two men pressing against each other, lost in exploration. All too soon, the kiss broke apart, both men panting, foreheads touching. As Mycroft opened his eyes, he caught Greg’s gaze, and soon the two were chuckling.

“I’ve found that direct answers tend to throw people off.” Greg murmured.

“I’m just glad you didn’t decide to leave.” Mycroft admitted. “She’s fairly interested in how things…work.”

Greg nodded. “I noticed.” He said dryly, chuckling again. “Would she really have asked me if I’m a power top?”

More confident now, Mycroft told him, “I’ll tell you the story of how I ended up in that pub on Friday and you’ll understand.”

Greg’s eyebrows rose, and he dropped another quick kiss on Mycroft’s mouth before releasing his hands, putting a more socially acceptable amount of space between them, in case Mummy or Father returned. “Can’t wait.”

 

_Later…_

_Not the worst outcome, brother. MH_

_True. How did you prevent Mummy frightening off Greg? SH_

_He answered directly and more frankly than she’d anticipated. I would suggest the same for John. MH_

_Acknowledged. Thankfully this whole mockery is over for good. SH_

_For good, brother? MH_

_I believe so. You? SH_

_Concur. MH_

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Go back and make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	20. Sherlock and Mycroft Do Not Take Their Dates To Meet Mummy

Sherlock and John were wrapped around each other, dozing on the couch on Sunday afternoon. John had joined Sherlock at Baker Street on Friday night and had yet to return home; he and Sherlock had barely been more than an arms-length apart since then. They’d dozed and talked; walked for hours around the city, John’s limp disappearing as he listened to Sherlock talk about the places they passed. John had eaten while Sherlock explained how tell if someone was an airline pilot or a waitress; Sherlock had listened while John explained how so many different actors had played The Doctor (though he found the whole premise lacking in scientific accuracy). They had touched and kissed and loved.

Right now they were making up for the hours not slept last night. John’s nightmares had woken them both, the adrenaline in their systems preventing sleep until dawn threatened against the windowpanes. As it was, Mrs. Hudson let their visitor in without either waking; it was only when a voice sounded in the quiet sitting room that Sherlock’s eyes flew open.

“I can see that Friday night was a success, then.” Mummy sounded exasperated. Sherlock started and tried to sit up quickly without disturbing John, but gave up when he saw that John was already awake.

“Mummy!” Sherlock gasped. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s Sunday, Sherlock. You were supposed to come to the house for lunch, remember?” Mummy beamed at John, who was looking more uncomfortable by the moment. “I’m Sherlock’s mother, as you can see. Violet Holmes.”

“John Watson. Pleased to meet you.” John replied, automatically standing to greet her.

Sherlock scowled. “John and I will make tea. Won’t we John?”

When they made it into the kitchen, John hissed, “What was that about?”

Sherlock was already ducking his head to speak urgently to John. “Do you trust me, John?”

John blinked at him, clearly thinking. “Yes.” He answered. Sherlock felt the tension bleed out of his body.

“I need you to ignore everything Mummy says while she’s here.” Sherlock said flatly.

“Um, okay. Why?” John asked. Before Sherlock had a chance to reply, Mummy came into the kitchen.

“Oh boys, you haven’t even started the tea!” She exclaimed. Sherlock took the opportunity to take out his phone. If he had to live through this nightmare, so did Mycroft.

_If you scooped a goldfish last night, you have half an hour to get both of you to Baker Street or I’ll tell Mummy the real reason you don’t come to Christmas. SH_

As Sherlock slipped his phone back into his pocket, he caught the end of Mummy’s comment to John. “…glad you and Sherlock met. I’m sure he’ll find someone, though.”

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock turned to his mother. “Are you talking about Mycroft, Mummy?”

Mummy nodded. “So frustrating for him, not to have found a match. Oh well, I’ll go back onto the Grindr and find him someone.”

John’s eyes widened at Mummy’s comments. He frowned and turned to Sherlock, before closing his mouth and smiling at Mummy. “Excuse us a minute.” He took hold of Sherlock’s arm and dragged him into the bedroom.

“Mycroft is your brother? The guy from Friday, in the suit?” John asked in a forced whisper.

“Yes, why?” Sherlock asked. Of all the questions…

“He lied to your mum.” John’s eyes sparkled as he watched Sherlock’s reaction. There had been enough conversation about Sherlock’s brother that John knew how competitive the two were; Sherlock had even admitted the whole story about their mother and Grindr. Never, though, had he spoken his brother’s name.

“How do you know?” Sherlock asked, not questioning the fact of it.

John grinned. “While you were in the shower yesterday I got a message from my mate Greg, you know, the DI from Friday night?” Sherlock nodded, remembering the interesting conversation more than his appearance. “He picked up on Friday night. Tall, posh bloke called Mycroft.”

He held out his phone, showing Sherlock the conversation he’d shared with Greg. After scanning it, Sherlock stared at John, a delighted grin spreading over both their faces.

“Excellent, John!” Sherlock breathed. He pressed a hard kiss to John’s mouth before flinging the door open and marching out. Without preamble he announced to a startled Mummy, “Mummy, this is John Watson. Medical doctor, Army Captain, and now my flat mate. Anything else you need to know?” Before she could speak, Sherlock pushed on, “I have it on excellent authority that Mycroft did in fact meet someone on Friday night-“

Before he could finish, the front door to 221 opened and closed. Sherlock cocked his head. “Ah, here he is right now.”

The three in the kitchen walked out into the sitting room, almost running into the pair coming swiftly in the main door. Mycroft and Greg had entered hand in hand, and Mummy gasped, her hands flying to her mouth before relocating to her hips.

“Mycroft St. John Holmes, you lied to me.”

“Mummy, I can explain-“ he began, as Mummy cut him off to greet Greg. Mycroft shot Sherlock a venomous look which was met with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Greg Lestrade, Mrs. Holmes, nice to meet you.” Greg was shaking hands with Mummy, who was insisting he call her Mummy instead of Mrs. Holmes.

“I must admit it was my fault we missed lunch, Mycroft and I took my niece out for breakfast and lost track of time.” Greg said smoothly. Sherlock snorted and raised one eyebrow at his brother, who was doing his best to look contrite. It was not working.

“Well now that we’re all here – John, have you met Greg? Oh of course, you would have met each other on Friday night!” Mummy said brightly. They exchanged amused grins before she went on, “Let’s have tea, then! The kettle is just boiled.”

John gave Sherlock’s hand a squeeze before gently letting go and moving over to talk to Greg. Sherlock and Mycroft took the opportunity to speak without an audience.

“Nice try, brother.” Sherlock smirked, still enjoying his victory.

“It is always worth the try.” Mycroft replied dryly. “I can see that John hasn’t gone home since Friday.”

“He is home. He’s moving in here.” Mycroft’s eyebrows rose.

“Spare bedroom upstairs, Mycroft.” Sherlock reminded him, though that had not been what he was thinking.

“Greg looks – spent.” Sherlock noted, watching clinically as the flush rose up his brother’s neck. “Did you and he become _acquainted_ over the course of the weekend?” When Mycroft met his eyes defiantly, Sherlock laughed out loud.

“Several times, in fact.” Mycroft retorted smugly, though his ears were still pink. “Might I make a deduction as to the power balance in your relationship?”

“I’m sure you could, but I’d rather you didn’t.” Sherlock replied, his revulsion at the idea surely showing on his face.

Before they could continue, Mummy returned with the tea tray. She poured for everyone, and when they were all sitting down, she asked brightly, “So! Who wants to tell me about their weekend? I hope you’ve all started to get to know one another.” Sherlock and Mycroft breathed deeply at the unintended double entendre. This might just be the longest conversation of their lives.

“Sherlock showed me his favourite parts of the city.” John offered innocently.

“Oh, that’s lovely.” Mummy replied. “What about you, Greg? What did you and Mycroft get up to?”

“We watched some old movies. We both love a lot of the same actors.” Greg told her.

“Oh, it’s so nice when you have things in common. I mean, the sex is nice, but you can’t spend your whole lives in bed, can you?” Mummy said.

“Um, no.” Greg agreed, flushing. Sherlock and Mycroft had closed their eyes in mortification.

“Now I don’t know if you two know this,” Mummy began, proving Sherlock wrong when he thought it couldn’t get any worse, “but my boys were not really dating anybody, so I joined them up to the Grindr.”

“Er, yes, Sherlock did mention it.” John replied, face carefully blank. “Did Mycroft bring that up, Greg?”

Greg shook his head, a smirk dancing around his mouth. “No, I don’t believe he did.” He turned to Mummy. “How did you find it? Using the app, I mean.”

“Oh, the application itself was easy enough.” She told him. “I’m quite good with computers, really. No it was finding the right person. My boys are such unique personalities, I knew it would have to be just the right man for each of them. Of course, they’ve managed to go out and find the two of you, who are just lovely, but I might take just a little credit for getting things started, as it were.”

Mycroft was avoiding Greg’s eyes now, unable to bear the shame of Greg knowing this story. John and Sherlock had been exchanging amused glances as Mummy chatted to Greg about Grindr, but their attention was brought sharply back when she added, “The hardest part was navigating the new terminology. I don’t have any experience with gay men, of course, and some of the terms seemed quite specific. I could use the Google to find out what they meant, but everybody wanted to know about power tops and switches and all sorts of things I didn’t know about these two.” She indicated her sons, who gave her matching forced smiles.

“Well, I think that’s all the time we have today, Mummy.” Sherlock said abruptly, standing up. He could not bear another second of this conversation, which appeared to be heading for an open discussion of everyone’s sexual preferences. With his mother. Unacceptable.

To his immense surprise, Mycroft stood too, adding, “This is not a topic of conversation we will need to revisit, Mummy.” He looked at Sherlock, who nodded. Mycroft spoke again. “Neither Sherlock nor I are comfortable discussing such aspects of our personal lives, and we would appreciate you refraining from doing so as well.”

Mummy looked less offended than the time Sherlock dragged a man in off the street and paid him to listen in Sherlock’s place, but more than when he’d abandoned her in a restaurant. Either way, she stood up, made her farewells to John and Greg and then her sons, and left with a slightly huffy manner.

Nobody in 221b spoke until the outer door had shut behind her. When it did, John’s eyes met Sherlock’s, and Greg’s met Mycroft’s; a collective sigh of relief went up.

“Is she always like that?” John asked tentatively.

“Yes.” Both brothers answers empathically.

“Bloody hell.” Greg muttered, exchanging a grin with Mycroft.

“Yeah.” John agreed absently, looking at Sherlock.

There was silence for a moment, until Sherlock said to his brother, “Get out. John and I want to have sex again.”

John snorted with laughter, shaking his head at Sherlock’s blunt statement.

“Well met to you too, brother.” Mycroft replied sarcastically, but he and Greg left, bidding John farewell and slamming the outer door behind them.

Before the door was even closed, Sherlock sent a text.

_Thank you, brother. SH_

The reply was immediate.

_Delete this afternoon from your mind palace, Sherlock, it need never be spoke of again. MH_

_Agreed. SH_

The End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't like this ending? Go back, make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	21. Sherlock and Mycroft Make NO Matches

There was nothing on Mycroft’s card – not a single matched interest.

Just like on Sherlock’s card. He was a little surprised, even the copper with whom he’d had the conversation had seemed vaguely interesting – and interested. Covering the shot of pain that speared through him at the idea of John not penning his name, Sherlock suggested to his brother, “We should get home, Mycroft.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft replied stiffly. The half-smile he offered Sherlock did not reach his eyes, and Sherlock felt the stirrings of sympathy for his brother – the goldfish in whom he’d evidently felt a connection had not reciprocated.

“I’ll send a car for you on Sunday morning.” Mycroft said. “Lunch with Mummy, remember?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose but nodded before turning and heading back to Baker Street.

+++

10am on Saturday found Mummy Holmes on Sherlock’s doorstep.

“I simply couldn’t wait to see how it w-“ she began, stopping abruptly when she stepped across the threshold of 221b. Sherlock was sprawled across the floor, snoring heavily. His shirt was untucked but he was otherwise fully dressed, shoes scuffed where he’d dragged them against the floor, tucking his toes together as he curled up against the warm body beside him.

For his part, Mycroft Holmes was more mussed than anybody had seen him in years. He still clutched the Scotch bottle by the neck, and his snoring played counterpoint to his brother. His shirt was also untucked as he’d stretched out, flinging his arms wide in sleep.

“Oh, my boys,” Mummy said, stepping quietly past them to fill the kettle. She made tea, the gentle clink of spoon against fine china finally rousing them from their drunken slumber. Sherlock groaned as he rolled away from his brother, blinking and holding his head as he attempted to sit up.

“I assume it didn’t go well, then.” Mummy said quietly, bringing the tea tray into the sitting room. Sherlock, still blinking rapidly, looked at her blankly before shaking his head slowly in response.

“No matches.” He summarised. “For either of us.”

 “Oh, Sherlock,” Mummy commiserated. Mycroft had sat himself up now too, discarding the Scotch and groaning when he saw its empty state.

They sat in silence for a moment, Mummy studying them both closely.

 “Mummy, what are you doing here?” Mycroft asked hoarsely. He and Sherlock shuffled back to lean against the couch as they watched Mummy pour the ginger tea.

“This will help settle your stomach,” She said, passing cups across, before answering his question, “I couldn’t wait to see what happened.” Her smile was a little sad. “I will admit, I had hoped for a happier outcome.”

Both brothers watched the steam spiral up, avoiding their mothers’ sympathetic gaze.

“Can I assume this whole charade is over, then?” Sherlock asked, addressing his remark to his tea.

“I certainly hope so.” Mycroft replied. They both looked at Mummy, waiting for her verdict.

She sighed. “I have one last favour.” Sherlock groaned, closing his eyes, but she cut him off. “One, Sherlock, and regardless of the outcome, I will stay silent on the matter of your romantic life forever.”

Sherlock considered, glancing at Mycroft, who nodded resignedly. “Very well.” He answered.

“First, a question for each of you.” They looked at her expectantly. “Tell me if my deduction is correct: Each of you met somebody you felt you had made a connection with, and you were disappointed they did not select you.”

Sherlock, with a sideways glance at his brother, nodded slowly. Mycroft did the same.

Mummy nodded in satisfaction. “In that case, my favour is mainly of you, Mycroft. Use your considerable powers of persuasion to find the contact details of these men, and make contact, both of you. If they are not interested, the matter will be over.”

Both brothers stared at Mummy, their befuddled brains working slowly.

“You want us to what?” Sherlock asked.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You need to decide: will the boys try and locate their goldfish, or not?  
> If YES, go to [chapter 24](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766372).  
> If NO, go to [chapter 25](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766387).


	22. Sherlock and Mycroft Make ONE Match Each

Sherlock stared at Mycroft’s card. One match.

“One match, brother.” Mycroft’s voice echoed his own thought.

“Both of us, then.” Sherlock replied, returning Mycroft’s card and taking his back. He folded it into his pocket, nodded to his brother and strode away down the street. Before he made it back to Baker Street, his phone buzzed. He didn’t bother checking – it would be Mycroft. Sure enough, when he finally dropped down on the couch and looked at the screen, his brother’s message showed there.

 

_Call him. MH._

_No. It’s over. SH._

_Mine is not what I expected either but we had a deal with Mummy. Call him. MH._

 

Sherlock snorted and threw his phone away, hand reaching into his pocket to finger the card still sitting there. He could picture the name in someone else’s scrawl, phone number printed more carefully so as to be clear. His breath had caught when he saw the first part of the name, then the swooping disappointment to which he was so accustomed had settled in his stomach. _Jonathon Wilson._ Not the Army Doctor, then. He’d scribbled the name to satisfy his brother’s demands, not out of any actual desire to see the man again. John, though, John had been…different. Not the same as Jonathon, certainly. He sorted back through his memory, dimly recalling the man attached to that name. He sighed. Probably best to get it over with.

As he reluctantly stood to retrieve his phone, the thought crossed his mind, the one he’d been avoiding. _Why didn’t John Watson mark my name?_ He wasn’t personally experienced in this kind of thing, but it was hard to believe that John had been disinterested in him, based on his observations.

“Leave it!” he snarled at himself, hating the other need that crept up on him, offering him an escape from the overwhelming emotions. Escape from this but into a snare with many more barbs. Pushing that need down too, he picked up his phone and sent a message before he could hesitate.

 

_Jonathon. Sherlock Holmes. May I suggest a drink tomorrow night, same location, same time? SH_

 

After a moment, he also fired off a message to his brother.

 

_Contact made with Jonathon. Happy? SH_

The reply came immediately.

 

_No. But satisfied. I am meeting Graham tomorrow night, same location. He shows no imagination. MH._

Sherlock gave a wry laugh.

 

_Neither do I. I suspect our dates will overlap, brother. SH._

 

He tossed his phone away, not expecting a reply from Jonathon in the immediate future. He could not help noticing the nagging disappointment still pressing on his stomach. Jonathon, not John. Not quite…

+++

The next evening, Sherlock put exactly the same amount of effort into his appearance as the previous night. Less than if he really cared, but enough so as not to appear blatantly uninterested. He had no enthusiasm for this evening – it was about fulfilling his commitment to his mother and setting himself free from her demands to find a life partner. His recollection was so minimal that it might as well be a blind date, really. _And John would not be there._

Walking into the pub again, Sherlock stood in the doorway, trusting that any man eager enough to mark him down for a second date would arrive early and keep an eye on the door. This was convenient as it negated the need for him to remember what this Jonathon looked like.

 “Sherlock.” The man stepping closer to him was Jonathon, Sherlock could see. His hair was light brown, eyes hazel. Average height, average fashion sense. Ah, Sherlock remembered now. Another average man, nothing intriguing or spectacular about this one.

“Jonathon.” They shook hands, and Sherlock accepted his offer of a drink.

“You don’t drink?” Jonathon asked, passing the tonic and lime to Sherlock as they found a table.

“Addictive substances are not something with which I associate.” He replied.

Jonathon’s eyes went wide and he mumbled some sort of apology. “You don’t mind if I, though…” indicating his own half-finished beer.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”

Seventeen seconds later (he’d have said long seconds, but time being immutable that was not possible), Jonathon said with faux brightness, “You said you worked on puzzles for your brother?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes.” Jonathon appeared to expect an expansion on that answer, so he added, “I can’t talk about it, it’s classified.”

“Yeah, I remember you saying. I’m in Mensa, you know.” Jonathon looked quite proud of himself.

Sherlock frowned. “So are approximately twenty thousand other British men.”

Jonathon blinked. “Are you in Mensa?”

Sherlock barely stopped himself snorting. “Why would I do that?”

“Er, it’s a mark of your intelligence, isn’t it? And you’re pretty smart.”

Sherlock stared at him. “I am aware of my own intelligence. Why would I need to join a group such as Mensa to prove that?”

Jonathon looked at him. “I think people like to know they’re good at something.” He sounded bewildered, Sherlock thought in annoyance.

“I am good at standardised testing. I completed a Mensa test paper, of course. My mother was more impressed than I.” _because I was four_ , Sherlock added in his head.

“The test was hard, though. I don’t even know anyone else who passed it.” Jonathon said defensively.

“Of course you don’t. Your spatial and logical intelligence are significantly higher than your formal education level, and your tendency to associate with people of a similar education as yourself restricts your social interaction to those with a generally lesser intelligence.” Sherlock explained. He was irritable, both because this was not John and because he knew it was because this was not John.

Jonathon frowned. “I don’t really see how you could know that, or why it’s all that relevant, actually.”

Sherlock sighed, inexplicably weary of all of this, suddenly. “I could explain it, and offend you further, or we could agree that this was a mistake and go our separate ways. I suspect the friends you brought tonight for support would prefer the latter. Don’t worry, I rarely come into establishments such as this, it is unlikely our paths will cross again.”

He stood and walked away, the blast of colder air a shock to his face. He stood outside, the prickling cold on his cheeks anchoring him and helping push away the desire once more to chemically wipe away his ability to feel.

 As he pulled on the cigarette he’d finally succumbed to lighting, the door opened again and Mycroft walked out, fixing his scarf.

“As good as mine, then.” Sherlock noted in a deliberate drawl.

Mycroft turned at the voice, relaxing when he saw it was his brother. Sherlock could see the frustration in his face, despite the apparent façade. Wordlessly, he held out the packet of cigarettes, lighting it as Mycroft sucked the smoke deep into his lungs.

“I suspect so.” Mycroft finally said. They stood in the cold air, Sherlock leaning against the building as they smoked. Mycroft said contemplatively, “He was not the one I believed I would match with, should a match occur.”

“Me either.” Sherlock murmured.

“Graham is a prison guard.” Mycroft said, as though trying to figure out a puzzle. “He is a good man, and attractive by objective standards, however…” he trailed off, which in itself made Sherlock’s eyebrows raise. Sherlock stubbed out the butt of his cigarette, taking another out and offering the packet to Mycroft. Drawing hard on the end of his, Mycroft accepted the packet.

“But not quite right.” Sherlock finished his brother’s thought. The look Mycroft sent him said, _exactly_.

Sherlock considered this. “Jonathon is an Army reservist. A medic. He teaches first aid courses.” He knew his brother would understand what he was saying. _Mine too. Almost, but not quite._

They stood for another long minute, finishing their cigarettes, contemplating the shifting of fate, the sliding doors of life that allowed a potential opportunity to slip by.

“I would say we are done, then.” Sherlock said, absently scratching at his inner elbow.

Mycroft noticed of course, murmuring, “I’ll send the next cipher over tonight.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette, making his way to the car waiting for him.

“Thank you, brother.” Sherlock crushed his cigarette underfoot and headed once more for Baker Street. At least this charade was over now.

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Go back and make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	23. Sherlock and Mycroft Make TWO Matches Each

“Two matches, Mycroft.” Sherlock nods. “Impressive.”

“As you, brother.”

They traded, each studying the two names and numbers that appeared on the others’ card, before returning them to their owner.

“Might I suggest arranging these dates for Sunday?” Sherlock asked, a mischievous glint in his eye.

A slow smile broke across Mycroft’s face. “Excellent idea, brother. I’m sure Mummy’s disappointment will be temporary when she hears why we are breaking our lunch date with her.”

The brothers went their separate ways. Mycroft looked again at the card as his car moved through the city. Two names, each with the possibility for a satisfactory date. One was perhaps more interesting than the other; his intuition about these things was excellent, and yet he could not turn away the likelihood of, if nothing else, a short term experience with the less interesting man.

Mycroft pulled out his phone and sent two messages, each an invitation for a coffee on Sunday, several hours apart. He did not wait for replies; rather, his mind returned to the work awaiting him at his office.

_9.53am Sunday_

Mycroft was en route to meet his first date when Anthea called. There was no way to delegate this problem; he would have to go to Downing Street personally and immediately. This Prime Minister was a nightmare, honestly. Instructing his driver first, Mycroft made a phone call.

“Hello.”

“Hello Graham, this is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Hey, Mycroft, how’s things? We’re still meeting in a few minutes, right?”

“Actually, I’ve been called into work. I am dreadfully sorry.”

There was a pause at the other end.

“Seriously? On a Sunday?”

“Mine is not the kind of job where one expects regular weekends, Graham.”

“So there’s no one else that could cover for you?”

“Not on this task, no.”

“You’re telling me that there is nobody in the whole city that can do this for you?”

 _Nobody in the country is more accurate,_ Mycroft thought. “That’s correct. I do apologise. Perhaps we could reschedule?”

“I get the impression that this is something that happens quite a lot, mate.”

“Unfortunately, the nature of the work I do-“

“Yeah, well that’s not going to work for me. If you can’t make some boundaries on your boss, Mycroft, you need another job, mate. It’s about priorities.”

“Well. Thank you for making you position on that point so clear. Best of luck in the future, Graham.”

Mycroft hung up, a flash of irritation tempered by the realisation that this would have certainly happened sooner or later. Sooner, knowing the Prime Minister, he thought, mentally preparing himself for this meeting.

+++

Three hours later, Mycroft insisted they take a break. No matter how he explained it, the Prime Minister and his simpering cohort of morons would simply not budge. He was determined to destroy the last five years of diplomatic work just to prove he’d done something as Prime Minister. His legacy, he insisted. A legacy of increased oil prices and frighteningly tense relations with several nuclear weapon bearing countries, Mycroft thought to himself furiously. As he stood in an empty office, his phone vibrated, reminding him of a meeting. Looking at the screen, he swore. Only half an hour until the second of the two dates he had scheduled for this afternoon. There was no way he would make it now. Bracing himself for a repeat of this morning’s conversation, he made the call.

“Lestrade.”

“Gregory. This is Mycroft Holmes.”

“Hi, Mycroft, what’s up?”

He hesitated, and before he could speak, Gregory broke in. “Ah, I know that silence, that’s an ‘I’m breaking our date’ silence.” There was amusement there, Mycroft noted. Perhaps not an immediate failure.

“I’m sorry. An unscheduled meeting is taking up far more of my time than I would like, and there is simply nobody else who could take my place.”

Mycroft held his breath, waiting for the inevitable annoyance.

To his surprise, Gregory’s voice was easy. “No problem. I know what that’s like. I’m a DI remember, regular hours are not exactly part of my job either.”

“I beg your pardon?” Mycroft found himself saying, then adding, “Thank you. That is very gracious of you.”

Lestrade chuckled, a delightful sound. “I said no problem, Mycroft. Might just as easily have been me. Look, give me a call when you get out of your meeting. I have the rest of the day more or less off, maybe we can grab dinner later instead.”

“Certainly.” Mycroft replied on polite autopilot.

“Okay, well, I hope your meeting goes well. See you later.”

“Goodbye, Gregory.”

Click.

Mycroft stared at his phone for a long, long moment. How had the same conversation gone in two such different directions? It seemed that his earlier intuition had been correct – Gregory was certainly more interesting than Graham. More tolerant, at least. Now if the Prime Minister would only see reason, Mycroft may still have the opportunity to see Gregory this evening. With a renewed determination, Mycroft returned to the meeting room. The Prime Minister would bow to his pressure, and he would like it.

+++

It took another hour before the Prime Minister finally acquiesced. In the end it took only nine words, muttered in his ear out of the hearing of his sycophants – ‘The junior Minister for Environment _is_ attractive, isn’t he?’ for him to immediately agree to everything Mycroft suggested. _Suggested_ , as though there was ever an option of saying no. As soon as the room was empty, Mycroft pulled out his phone, intending to call Gregory. He froze, the text message arriving as he searched for Gregory’s number.

_Called out to a crime scene. Don’t call me, I’ll call you. Greg Lestrade._

“Damn it.” Mycroft rarely swore, and this whisper felt odd coming from his mouth. He hesitated, finally deciding to make another call instead.

“Anthea. I’d like eyes on Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade, please. CCTV send to my laptop.” He hung up, pondering his next move. With any luck, the scene would be straightforward and Gregory would be able to contact him, assuming he was still interested enough to do so. Mycroft needed a distraction, so he headed back to the Diogenes Club, setting up the camera feed on his laptop as he worked. The scene was a murder; it did look fairly straightforward, and his hope flared again that he might hear from Gregory this evening. Resolutely, he dimmed the screen and turned his attention to his own work. A watched pot, and all that.

It was a shock when, quite a while later, his phone rang. _Gregory Lestrade_ said the caller ID, and Mycroft swallowed a burst of panic as he saw the name.

“Gregory.” He answered.

“Hi, Mycroft.” He sounded tired, Mycroft thought.

“How did the scene go?” Mycroft asked.

He could almost hear Gregory shrug – in fact, he could see it, turning up the screen to see him walking absently around the nearly deserted scene, scratching the back of his head with one hand as he spoke. A faint smile touched Mycroft’s mouth as he listened and watched. “Well it’s a murder scene, so not great for one guy, at least. Plenty of evidence, though, shouldn’t been too difficult to work through. Just a pile of witness statements and I just realised you probably don’t care at all about this so I should just shut up.”

“Not at all. I wouldn’t have asked if I wasn’t interested in the answer.” Mycroft replied sincerely.

“Yeah, I tend to ramble when I’m tired.”

Mycroft’s heart sank. “I assume you’d prefer to retire home, then.”

“No, actually, I haven’t eaten in a while and wondered if you’d want to grab something to eat.” Mycroft watched him look at his wrist, then heard the wry laugh. “Now, at 10.17pm.”

“Of course, Gregory. Shall my car pick you up?”

“That’d be great.” He gave a loud yawn, then a chuckled apology. “God, sorry.”

“Not a problem. I will see you in ten minutes.”

They hung up and Mycroft immediately ordered a car, packed away his desk and donned his coat and scarf, pocketing his gloves. Umbrella clenched in one hand he made his way to the car, directing the driver to the crime scene. It was drizzling and dark, a classic noir setting, he thought to himself, popping the umbrella out as he stepped out of the car. The DI was the last man there, sheltering under a doorway. He grinned as he saw Mycroft approach, extending the large umbrella out over the silver hair now flecked with moisture.

“Nice brolly.” he commented.

“Thank you.” Mycroft replied. They really were very close, standing here under his umbrella, but it was not uncomfortable.

“I was wondering if you were coming. I never gave you the address.” Gregory said, his eyes narrowing speculatively at Mycroft.

Mycroft shrugged. “My job has certain perks.” He admitted, pleased to see the grin on Gregory’s face.

“Yeah, yeah, minor government official my arse. Whatever it is that you do, Mycroft Holmes, there’s nothing minor about it.” Mycroft’s heart was pounding – if Gregory asked him, he could not reveal anything at all about his employment.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask you to spill any state secrets,” he said, and Mycroft wondered where his ability to school his face had gone if Gregory could read him so easily. He continued, “I just wanted you to know that I’ve got your number, Mr. Holmes.”

“I believe you mentioned you were hungry, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft replied in his most clipped tone. Gregory just chuckled again and placed his hand over Mycroft’s on the handle of the umbrella.

“Lead on, MacDuff.” He declared.

Mycroft swallowed hard. This really was the most remarkable man, and he might not have known it until much later if not for the Prime Minister’s incompetent stupidity.

As he allowed Gregory first entry to the car, a mobile phone rang. They both reached for their pockets, though Gregory was the one to find his ringing.

“Yeah.” He answered, shooting an apologetic look at Mycroft. He frowned. “What? Where? Oh, for God’s…right, I’ll head over now. What’re the names?” His eyebrows shot up, and his eyes fixed on Mycroft. “No problem, I’m on my way.” He said, ending the call and sitting back, still looking at Mycroft.

“Something urgent?” Mycroft asked.

“Regent’s Park, York Bridge.” Greg replied tensely.

There was something in his tone that told Mycroft exactly who was involved, and that it was serious. He directed the driver, and they started moving quickly through the traffic.

“Sherlock.” He said, and rather than the expected disapproval, he saw empathy on Greg’s face.

“He’s your brother, from Friday night, right?” Mycroft nodded, and Greg went on, “I’m guessing this has happened before, then.”

“It has. Is he alright?” Mycroft asked. What on earth had happened to the date he was supposed to be on today?

“I don’t know. There’s been a shooting.” Greg said.

 

_12 hours previous…_

Sherlock had arranged to meet one of the men on his card at 10am, the other at 8pm, allowing him enough time to delete the first if necessary. He hoped, however, that at least one of the dates would be worthwhile, i.e not a complete waste of his time.

The first date was perfectly on time, perfectly coiffed, and perfectly boring. He feigned interest for the time it took him to drink one cup of coffee; another four minutes and he could no longer stand it.

“I have to go. My apologies.” Sherlock pushed his chair back, intending to leave.

“What’s so pressing?” The other man asked.

I have things to do.” Sherlock replied irritably, throwing some money on the table and walking off. What a waste of time, he thought.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You need to decide: Does the date stand up and follow him, or not?  
> If yes, go to [chapter 26](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766453).  
> If no, go to [chapter 29](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/27009219).


	24. Sherlock and Mycroft DO Look For Their Goldfish

“You heard me, Mycroft.” Mummy said, gentle but insistent, ignoring her younger son for the moment.

Mycroft looked at her, and Sherlock knew he would capitulate. “Of course, Mummy,” he said, taking out his mobile phone and looking at Sherlock, who said, “John”. Mycroft nodded, making a brief call. When he’d given his assistant the instructions, Mummy nodded in satisfaction. Sherlock groaned inwardly. Would this nightmare never end?

+++

_Sherlock_

On Tuesday, Sherlock received a text message from an unknown number – presumably his brother’s assistant.

 _Doctor John Watson. Rossmore Road Medical Clinic_. A phone number was also included – a mobile phone, presumably John’s personal number. Sherlock stared at the text message for several minutes, before his phone rang.

“You received Anthea’s message, I presume?” Mycroft asked.

“Of course.” Sherlock replied. “Did you find your goldfish’s details, too?”

“Gregory Lestrade is a Detective Inspector with New Scotland Yard.” Mycroft said flatly.

“The DI? I remember.” Sherlock said. “I’m impressed, one of the not so boring ones.”

“Call yours.” Mycroft instructed.

I was about to when my insufferable blimp of a big brother rang.” Sherlock pointed out, hanging up on Mycroft and grinning at the image of his frustration.

Hesitating, Sherlock put his phone down, thinking. He had no idea how to go about this. He certainly remembered John, but would John remember him? And the awkwardness could not be avoided – he had expressed interest in John, which had not been reciprocated. There was only one logical path. As much as he hated to admit it, Sherlock needed advice. Given his exceedingly small circle of acquaintances, it was simple to decide who he should ask. Collecting his things, Sherlock clattered downstairs.

“Mrs. Hudson?” he called, knocking on her door.

“Yoo-hoo, I’m in here!” She called, and he entered to find her in the kitchen, unpacking her shopping.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she said with pleasure, turning her cheek to receive his cheek.

“I need some advice.” He said without preamble.

She looked surprised, declaring, “I’ll make a cuppa, will I?”

Sherlock nodded, waiting in silence until a cup of hot sweet tea and a plate of biscuits sat on the table before him. He took a deep breath and told her the whole story, from his mother deciding to interfere in his personal life (“She IS your mother, dear,”) all the way up to the text he’d received this morning, (“ooh, Mycroft found him! You must be so excited!”).

“I don’t know what to do, Mrs. Hudson.” he admitted in embarrassment, explaining his quandary.

“Oh Sherlock,” she said, her face kindly and understanding. “How can you expect to make a decision in the moment like that? You don’t know why he didn’t mark your name – and you don’t know that he didn’t regret his decision! You _do_ know where he works, go and see him.”

“Really?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes, Sherlock. You can’t settle this over the phone. You’ll know as soon as you see him.” She spoke with such conviction Sherlock was actually almost convinced.

“Are you sure?” he asked once more.

“Yes. Right now. Here, take these,” she picked up the daffodils from the bench, still in their paper. “Daffodils mean new beginnings; they’ll be perfect.” She thrust the flowers into his hand then chivvied him up and out her door. He hadn’t even touched his tea; before he could protest, he was outside, staring at the knocker of 221, blinking and holding the daffodils.

“Okay.” He said aloud. It wouldn’t take him long to walk there, and he could use every minute to figure out what to say.

+++

When Sherlock arrived, he stood outside the clinic for a good ten minutes, staring at the door, willing himself to walk in and ask for John. Just as he’d convinced himself to take the plunge, the door opened and instead of another mother with small children, or elderly lady, John Watson stepped out. He looked right at Sherlock and froze.

“Sherlock.” He said blankly.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock said, his heart hammering in his chest. He realised he was still holding the daffodils, so he held them out.

A look of surprised pleasure crossed John’s face. “For me?” he asked, and Sherlock nodded. “Thank you, they’re lovely.”

“My landlady tells me they represent new beginnings.” He said carefully.

John nodded. “I wondered why you didn’t mark my name down, actually.” He said, his tone also careful.

Sherlock frowned. “I did. You didn’t mark my name.”

“Yes, I did.” John replied.

They looked at each other.

“A mistake?” John asked, a smile now playing around his mouth. Sherlock watched it, fascinated, and realised what had already occurred to John – they’d both wanted to see each other again, and whatever the reason for the initial misunderstanding, here they stood now.

“I’m on my lunch break.” John said, his mouth now spread in a wide smile. “You could come and explain how you tracked me down. I’m sure it’s brilliant.” Sherlock couldn’t help beaming in return.

“Oh it is,” he replied, mentally deleting Mycroft from the narrative.

 “I’m sure I’ll be very impressed,” John assured Sherlock, entwining their fingers with one hand and carrying his daffodils in the other.

 

_Mycroft_

His heart pounded as he waited in his car for Gregory to exit his office. For the first time in his life, Mycroft had pulled a professional string for personal gain. Apart from finding both John Watson and Gregory Lestrade, he had called the Assistant Commissioner and called in a favour – one of many he was owed and very rarely called in. Ingrid had jumped at the chance of paying back even part of her debt to Mycroft, calling Gregory personally to tell him to leave his desk and get into the black town car waiting for him, no questions asked. Mycroft knew that should he call and make the same request without identifying himself, he would be either refused or arrested. Each had its respective drawbacks, and neither furthered his ultimate plan – to find out what had happened with Gregory. From his perspective, their conversation had been remarkably easy; they shared interests and a commonality of outlook. Gregory had understood his inability to talk about his work, and he had been tactful enough not to ask details of Gregory’s job. He had nurtured a small kernel of hope which had been dashed when he had seen that blank page at the end of the night. This was his opportunity to find out what had gone wrong. What he had done.

Without warning, the door to the car opened, and Gregory Lestrade climbed in. He looked confused and a little grumpy, which was understandable, Mycroft thought, keeping his face carefully neutral while Gregory stared at him.

“Mycroft.” Gregory said. Mycroft tried to read his expression, but it was changing too fast – surprise/pleasure/suspicion/hurt/blank/suspicion, was that even possible?

“Hello, Gregory.” Mycroft started, then realised he had no idea where to go from here.

“I’m assuming something to do with your job gave you access to the records at the speed dating.” Greg said. He didn’t sound annoyed, which was a start.

“Something like that,” Mycroft said evasively, and Gregory smiled, of all things.

“Is something funny?” Mycroft blurted out, his anxiety at not knowing why Gregory was responding so overpowering his usually considered demenour.

“Well, yes.” The silver head cocked to one side, studying Mycroft. “You obviously changed your mind and went to a lot of trouble to get me down here.” He frowned, then added, “But that’s not quite it, is it?”

Mycroft just stared at him, realising that this man might have just as much experience interpreting body language as he himself did.

“What is it, Mycroft?” Gregory asked quietly, and the sincere concern in his voice gave Mycroft the courage to answer.

“I didn’t change my mind, I wanted to ask why you didn’t mark my name after our conversation.” Mycroft admitted. “I thought we’d…connected,” he continued a little stiffly, “but…” to his mortification, Mycroft trailed off without finishing his sentence.

Gregory understood however, his brow furrowing then clearing. “You marked my name? But you couldn’t have, we didn’t make a match.”

“I assure you I did, Gregory.”

Greg just stared at Mycroft. “But I marked yours, too, Mycroft.”

It was Mycroft’s turn to stare, the deep brown eyes drawing him in. “Really?” he asked.

Greg nodded, a grin spreading across his face. “Really.” He said, and with a quick movement, shifted from his seat opposite Mycroft to that next to him. With a glance across, Greg took Mycroft’s hand, sliding their palms together. Glancing at his watch, he said, “According to my boss’s boss, I’m to go to lunch for the next three hours. So what did you have in mind, then?”

Mycroft blushed at the tone in his voice, the heat in his cheeks giving away his embarrassment.

“How about actual lunch, then?” Gregory suggested. “I’m starving.”

“Alright.” Mycroft answered, texting his driver with his free hand. As they set off he smiled at Gregory and miracle of miracles, Gregory smiled back.

THE END.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't like this ending? Go back and make a different choice and see where that takes you.


	25. Sherlock and Mycroft DO NOT Look For Their Goldfish

“You heard me, Sherlock.” Mummy said, gentle but insistent.

Sherlock looked at her for a long while before placing his teacup carefully on the tray. “No, Mummy. I’m sorry to disappoint you once again, but I have made all the effort of which I am capable in this matter. I have my work, and Mycroft willing, I will continue to have enough to occupy myself without the distraction of friends or lovers.” He stood on wobbly legs and walked to his bedroom, closing the door behind himself. Through the wood, he heard the sounds of his brother speaking; while the words were indistinct, the tone was clear; Mycroft was also gently turning Mummy down. She would be upset, Sherlock knew, but she would get over it. Just as he and Mycroft would, shutting the hurt and bitter disappointment away in rarely used rooms of their respective mind palaces.

He rolled onto his side, an unexpected tea tracking down the side of his face.

 _Alone protects me_ , Sherlock reminded himself. _Alone._

END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't like this ending? Go back and make another choice and see where it takes you.


	26. Sherlock's Date Follows Him

Sherlock did not look back, but it was clear that the man he’d left at the café had not remained there. He was atrociously bad at following discreetly, which made it easy to keep an eye one him; Sherlock amused himself for a while by taking turns at random and even heading for the tube before popping out the other end of the train station. Eventually he tired of the game, going home to Baker Street. The man followed, trying the doorbell numerous times before giving it up and settling in to watch the door. Sherlock sighed. How inconvenient.

At 7.45pm, Sherlock left Baker Street for the second of his dates. The man from this morning (what was his name, again?) was still there, following at a distance, so Sherlock made his way into Regent’s Park with the intention of losing him in the darkness near the open air theatre. As he walked faster, though, he realised it was much harder to track someone behind you without the useful reflective surfaces found in a city street. Amateur mistake, he cursed himself. Just as he decided to turn back out of the park, the man called out his name. After such an effort to follow without being seen, this was not what Sherlock expected. He stopped and turned around, grateful at least that they were still on the lit path near York Bridge. The man was standing about ten metres from him. He held a gun.

“Yes?” Sherlock replied mildly. As unhinged as the man clearly was, he could see from here that the safety was engaged; whether the man holding it knew was another matter.

“You can’t just get up and walk away like that!” he shouted. What was his name again? Sherlock wondered. It would be better if he could remember. Robert, Ralph, Rupert…

“Well I did, actually.” Sherlock replied calmly. He saw a flash of movement behind the man but kept his eyes from moving around.

“You CAN’T. DO. THAT.” Rupert (maybe) screamed, waving the gun around. “You have to GIVE. ME. A. CHANCE.” He looked pathetically at Sherlock. “How do you know if you like me if you don’t give me a chance?”

“Fairly sure that tailing me – badly, I might add - and staking out my home before pulling a gun isn’t a great start.” Sherlock pointed out. This conversation was slightly more engaging that the conversation they’d shared at the café, but still, there were things he would rather be doing.

“The gun wasn’t the start, smart boy,” Rupert sneered, flicking off the safety, “it was the end.”

Sherlock froze.

“Now I’ve got your attention, don’t I?” the deranged man said, pointing the gun more forcefully at Sherlock. “Not going to keep up with the stupid comments now, are you?”

“I’d say not.” Sherlock replied. His heart was hammering now – he had no idea what to say. Oddly, he found that he’d raised his hands, showing them open and empty. He waited, wondering if he was about to be shot.

The sound was loud, even in the open air of the park.

Sherlock gasped. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> STOP! You need to decide: Did Sherlock get shot?  
> If yes go to [chapter 27](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766543).  
> If no go to [chapter 28](http://archiveofourown.org/works/11426109/chapters/26766603).


	27. Sherlock Gets Shot

Sherlock fell backwards, pain blooming in his side. He found himself looking at the sky, a dark mat of clouds covering the stars. He gasped as a scuffle broke out somewhere, but he couldn’t move to see what was going on. His strength seemed to be draining out with the blood; a shaky hand appeared in front of his face, dark with the sticky blood that was warm on his skin. His hand, and his blood, he realised.

“Shit!” A voice swore near him. “Can you hear me? My name’s John, I’m a doctor.”

“John?” Sherlock whispered. Why was he whispering?

“Ye- Sherlock?” A face appeared above him, largely in shadow but still recognisable as the man he was headed out to meet at his 8pm date.

“Hi.” Sherlock whispered.

“Hi, shit, look there’s an ambulance on the way. I’m going to press right here, where he’s hit you, sorry…” Sherlock felt a huge pressure on his side, the pain blooming to run through every nerve in his body. He convulsed, shouting in agony, and he could hear a steady stream of, ‘sorry, mate, sorry’ coming from John. Soon there was another pair of hands there, and they took over the pressure while John took his pulse – warm fingers against his neck – and checked his pupils. Sherlock felt sleepy and cold, and he smiled a little as he felt himself drifting off.

“No, mate, don’t go to sleep!” John shouted at him. “Come on, we’ve got a date, remember?”

Sherlock smiled. He had a lovely date with the lovely Army doctor, he remembered. Lovely date…

“Yeah, lovely Army doctor, that’s me,” John said, grinning but with a note of desperation in his voice. “Stay with me, handsome, we’re gonna need to decide what we’re going to do on this date.”

“Doesn’t this count?” Sherlock slurred.

“No it sodding well does not!” John said. “Getting shot does not count as a first date.”

“Saving my life, though, bit memorable.”

“Bit hard to follow up, I reckon.” John replied.

Sherlock smiled at that. He had a point. Dimly, he was aware of ambulance sirens approaching.

“Finally,” John muttered. Sherlock grunted as a fresh shot of pain lanced through his side.

“It’s okay,” John said quietly, “the cavalry’s here.”

Sherlock saw the paramedics enter his field of vision, heard John’s voice explaining what had happened.

“John?” he tried to call, as the paramedics filled his view. They pulled him onto a gurney, spiking a fresh wave of agony.

“We’ll give you something for the pain, mate.” One of the paramedics assured him.

“No opiates.” Sherlock managed through gritted teeth.

The paramedic looked up in surprise. “You sure?”

“None.” Sherlock confirmed. He didn’t want to go down that path, not with John there. “John?” he asked again.

“Is he a mate of yours?” the paramedic asked, and Sherlock nodded.

“P-please.” Sherlock whispered.

A moment later, John appeared. “Sherlock?” he asked.

“Ride with me?” Sherlock asked, eyes closing despite his best efforts.

“We’ve gotta go,” the paramedic said.

“I’m coming.” John said, an authority in his voice that Sherlock hadn’t heard before. He liked it. Feeling John’s hand clenched in his, Sherlock allowed himself to drift off. John would take care of him.

 

_Twelve hours later…_

Mycroft, Greg and John stood in St. Bart’s, relief on all their faces. Mycroft and Greg were holding hands; John was still pacing. Mycroft was unsurprised to see that he’d left his cane somewhere and had yet to realise its absence.

“So he will survive.” Mycroft clarified with the surgeon who stood in front of them.

“Yes, barring unforeseen events.” She replied, hedging as always. “The bullet managed to go right through him without hitting anything important. He’ll need some help getting around for a while, but he should be fine.”

They all thanked her, Mycroft and John shaking her hand before she left them in the relatives’ room.

“So that’s a relief.” Greg murmured, his fingers squeezing Mycroft’s.

“Indeed.” Mycroft replied. The warmth of Greg’s hand was a comfort for which he was grateful right now.

Turning to John, Mycroft said, “You could go home, Doctor Watson.”

John simply shot him a look which Mycroft translated as, ‘Not bloody likely.’

“Or wait until he wakes.” Mycroft murmured. This man could be the making of my brother, he thought. He’d heard how Sherlock had refused morphine at the scene – an unheard of event. Was John the reason for it?

They stood for a few more moments, before John turned suddenly to Mycroft. “Does Sherlock live with anyone?”

“There is a housekeeper in the flat below, but no, he lives alone.”

John nodded, thinking. “He’ll need constant care.”

“That can be arranged.” Mycroft assured him, though he allowed a hint of a question. Was John offering…

“I could move into his place for a while, help him out while he’s recovering.” John said, and it was less question and more edict.

Mycroft looked him over – _medical discharge, honest, dependable, PTSD, no nonsense, intermittent tremor, no close family, no job_ – and smiled. “I think that would be a splendid idea.”

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't like this ending? Go back and make a different choice and see where that takes you.


	28. Sherlock Does Not Get Shot

He blinked as the man in front of him fell, the gun clattering to the ground. A figure dashed out from the shadow of a tree and picked up the gun with two fingers, fiddling with it before dropping it again. Sherlock watched in shock, unable to move.

“Mate? Are you alright?” The man was still holding a gun – far more safely than Sherlock had ever held a gun, really – came closer. The gun he was holding was a different one. He saw Sherlock staring and tucked it back into the small of his back. Sherlock blinked.

“Sherlock?” The man looked familiar, and he knew Sherlock’s name.

“John?” Sherlock asked. The light was terrible, but he was sure this was the same man he had left his flat to meet at 8pm.

“What the hell is going on?” John asked.

“I think ‘why are you carrying a loaded weapon’ might be more relevant,” Sherlock asked him. He looked over at Rupert. “Is he dead?”

“I presume so.” John replied. He looked a little worried. “I shouldn’t be carrying this gun, just got used to it in Afghanistan.” He looked supremely uncomfortable as he admitted, “I need it if I’m going out at night.”

Sherlock nodded. The effects of the war on John Watson were easy for him to read. He pulled out his mobile phone, calling Mycroft while his eyes never left John’s face.

“Brother?” he said, “I need a favour.”

“I’m on my way.” Mycroft replied.

“Good.” Sherlock said, intending to hang up.

“I mean Sherlock, the shooting has been reported to the police, with whom I am currently in transit to Regents Park.”

“I still need the favour.” Sherlock repeated himself with immense patience.

Mycroft sighed. “What is it, Sherlock?”

“John killed someone with an illegal gun. I need you to cover it up. And get John a licence to carry his gun.” Turning off his phone before Mycroft could reply, Sherlock spoke to John. “Done. My brother will sort it out.”

John stared at him. “He will?”

“He will.” Sherlock said. “As I recall, we had not decided what to do on this date of ours, John. I’m not sure I can top this next time, to be honest.”

John nodded, still distracted.

“You alright?” Sherlock asked. “You have just shot a man.”

“Yeah,” John answered consideringly, “but he wasn’t a very nice man, was he?”

Sherlock looked at him, barely concealing a grin. “Dinner?” he asked.

“Starving.” John answered. “Oh, we should wait for your brother. And the police.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Oh, alright.”

John grinned, and Sherlock couldn’t help grinning back.

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Didn't like the ending? Go back and make a different choice and see where it takes you.


	29. Sherlock's Date Does Not Follow Him

Sherlock spent the rest of the day at Mycroft’s house, rearranging the furniture. Just little adjustments. A few degrees of rotation here, a book or five out of order there. He even went as far as decanting the herbs out of their containers and mixing them up. A small thing but it helped him to concentrate on the fact that he had nothing at all to do right now. His brain was getting close to the point where he had to do something to occupy it. Mycroft wasn’t answering his phone, and Sherlock had no puzzles right now. It was Mycroft’s own fault, really.

When 7.45pm finally came, Sherlock left Mycroft’s flat, satisfied that the changes would drive his brother crazy. He headed right for Angelo’s, where he and John were meeting for dinner. The earlier part of his day was largely forgotten; he’d done some deleting while he unfolded and mismatched Mycroft’s socks. As he arrived at Angelo’s, Sherlock hesitated. Of the two dates he’d made, this was the one he was more interested in. Knowing that the previous date had been a bust, the thought had crossed his mind that this date was redundant; he’d already met his mother’s criterion, and could happily settle into his bachelorhood without further interference. Two thoughts stemmed from this at the same time. Happiness was not the right term for his bachelor’s existence; and why exactly was he so anxious, meeting a virtual stranger for an unnecessary date?

Shaking it off as best he could, Sherlock opened the door, greeting Angelo with a smile. The proprietor was busy with another customer, though he did return Sherlock’s smile and indicate his usual table. Sliding into his seat, Sherlock was startled to realise that John was already there.

“Am I late?” Sherlock asked without thinking.

“I’m early, I think.” John replied, looking nervous through his smile.

“Unlikely.” Sherlock replied, “unless…of course, the works on the tube delayed your plans so you caught a cab instead, allowing you to arrive seven minutes early.” He checked his watch. “I am, in fact, precisely on time.” John didn’t yet know how remarkable that in itself was. Right now, he was staring at Sherlock in astonishment.

“On Friday I thought you’d asked someone for the intel,” John said into the silence. His uptight demenour relaxed a little as he settled back. “You’re pretty bloody observant if you can tell all that from one look.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow twitched. “No different than Friday.” He replied.

John snorted. “Um, yes it is. And if you mean that you got all that information on Friday from looking at me too, that’s even more brilliant.”

It was Sherlock’s turn to look at John in astonishment. He’d never met someone so at ease with his deductions, especially when they were as personal as those he’d made about John. He cast about for something to say. “That jumper’s not as bad as the one you were wearing at the pub.”

“I’ll take the complement that was buried in there somewhere.” He glanced down at the navy jumper, unadorned with decorative cables. “This is probably the nicest one I own. My sister bought it for me when I got back.”

Sherlock frowned. “Sister?” He could tell from the way John’s face clouded over that he didn’t want to talk about his sister. The odd sensation of caring that someone else was uncomfortable slid over Sherlock. He opened his mouth to change the subject when Angelo interrupted them.

“Sherlock! How are ya, mate?” He beamed at Sherlock and then at John. “Anything you want, on the house, your money’s no good here.” Angelo was addressing John as he spoke. “I’ll just get you a candle for the table, it’s more romantic.”

“You must have done something pretty impressive if that’s the reception you usually get from him.” John remarked, after Angelo had delivered their candle and disappeared again.

“Just helped him out a few years ago,” Sherlock found himself saying. He didn’t want John to think he was boasting. This instinct went directly against his equal desire to show off; the opposition of the two was causing lot of noise in his head.

When a few moments had passed, John spoke again. “So, who was it that dragged you to the pub thing?” he asked.

“My brother.” Sherlock replied.

“Mycroft?” John asked, and when Sherlock’s face betrayed his surprise, John added, “Of all the people there, you two are the most alike and most dissimilar at the same time. Must be brothers.”

Sherlock was impressed. “Your deductive reasoning is really not bad.” He said. John nodded, and Sherlock was a little put out that John didn’t seem to realise how high praise this was from him.

“Why aren’t you working as a doctor?” Sherlock asked. John was prevented from answering by the arrival of Angelo; they both ordered, before Sherlock turned back to John, waiting for his reply.

“I don’t know.” John answered shortly. Sherlock, unsure if he’d crossed an invisible social line, remained silent, lest he do it again. Just as he was wondering if they would spend the rest of the evening in silence, John spoke again, his gaze fixed on his napkin. “I do know. It’s not the same any more. I can’t make it worthwhile anymore.” He stopped, a flush staining his cheeks pink.

Tentatively, Sherlock said, “Because it’s not life and death.”

John nodded. They sat in the silence again, though without the tension from earlier. When their meals arrived, Sherlock looked blankly at his, realising he really should eat something.

“You deduced that on Friday.” John said after swallowing a mouthful of his pasta.

“Which part?” Sherlock asked.

“The reason I’m not practicing medicine.” John replied.

Sherlock nodded, unsure why John was bringing that up.

“Most people assume the war changed me,” John said, “and it did, but not the way they think it did.”

“Why did you join the Army?” Sherlock asked abruptly.

John blinked at him, then smiled despite himself. “To escape the boredom.” He replied, a smirk and a challenge in his voice. He’d figured out the irony, Sherlock could see.

Before he knew he was speaking, Sherlock said, “I know what it’s like to want to escape boredom.”

“What was your route, then?” John asked, looking at him curiously.

“Cocaine.” Sherlock replied simply. John froze, his fork halfway to his mouth.

“Cocaine.” He repeated. Sherlock nodded, taking a bit of his meal just for something to do. John was looking at him speculatively.

“You’re not high now,” John said, “and you weren’t two days ago, either. So you must have found something else.”

“My brother provides puzzles.” Sherlock told him.

“Puzzles?” John said, and Sherlock explained how the act of solving the puzzle helped keep his mind clear. John was obviously thinking as he ate, and Sherlock watched him, hoping it wasn’t the beginning of the end of their date. Was John going to mentally label him ‘freak’ and leave?

“How do you feel about dead bodies?” John asked. It was Sherlock’s turn to be caught out, his fork partway to his mouth. As he sat frozen, a dollop of tomato sauce dropped onto his trousers.

“Shit, sorry,” John said, taking up his napkin and reaching over to drop it in Sherlock’s lap. “I can’t reach, here, you get it.” Sherlock did, knowing he’d need to have his suit dry cleaned and not caring in the least.

“Dead bodies?” he asked carefully. “I’m not sure I have strong feelings one way or another. Why?”

“My mate Greg talked me into going to that pub night. He’s a DI for Scotland Yard. If you can stomach the crime scene photos, he might be able to get you some cold cases to have a look at. I mean, if you wanted to. Your deductive skills are incredible, you could probably see things they missed. Maybe generate some new leads or something…” John trailed off, studying Sherlock’s face. He knew he’d barely moved since John’s suggestion had made his head explode with possibilities. The idea was fascinating and tantalising and John had no idea that…

“I used to dissect road kill when I was younger.” Sherlock blurted out. “Until Mother found out and stopped me.”

John stared for a moment, until a grin broke over his face. “So the bodies won’t be a problem, then.” He said, finishing his meal.

“No,” Sherlock confirmed. He looked down, surprised to see that he had also eaten almost everything on his plate. “Shall we walk?” he asked. John nodded, and they farewelled Angelo before turning to walk down Northumberland Street.

“Consulting detective.” John said suddenly.

“Pardon?” Sherlock replied.

“You could be a consulting detective.” John told him, small smile on his face.

“What’s a consulting detective?” Sherlock asked, entertained by the idea. He did like the sound of it, actually.

“When Scotland Yard needs help, when they’re out of their depth,” he said grandly, as though introducing a blockbuster movie, “they call you. The consulting detective! Only one in the world.”

Sherlock snorted.

“Hey! I invented the job, be nice.” John told him.

“And my trusty side kick?” Sherlock teased, continuing the idea.

“Doctor John Watson, trusty side kick. I have the important job of telling the world about your exploits.”

“And how is it you do that, Doctor?” Sherlock asked, amused.

“My blog, of course. I’ll be in charge of dramatic names for the cases. My therapist will be so pleased.” He said sarcastically.

“Where would I be without my blogger?” Sherlock asked, sighing dramatically.

“Lost, of course.” John replied.

They grinned at each other, the silly idea growing and bringing their minds together.

“Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson.” John said dramatically, flinging his arms wide and planting his feet. The action stopped Sherlock in his tracks, which in turn saved his life.

The gunshot was loud, explosive; Sherlock felt the breeze hit his face as the bullet passed centimetres in front of him. Before he could react, John had grabbed him and hit the ground, knocking the wind from him. Struggling for breath, Sherlock could see that they were protected somewhat by the rubbish bin to their left; despite that, John had flung his body over Sherlock’s. Before either of them could move, another shot rang out, and Sherlock felt John clutch him closer, bracing for impact. When none came, and nothing happened, John’s head slowly came up, looking cautiously around. Sherlock lay still, having no idea what was going on, his brain seemingly stuck on the fact that John’s body was pressed to his, warm and solid.

“Sherlock?” A voice sounded quiet in his ear, and a shudder wracked his body.

“Yes.” He answered, annoyed at himself for such a reaction. “I’m fine.”

“Sherlock?” Another voice, this time from across the street. “Doctor Watson?”

John and Sherlock sat up, though Sherlock noticed that John had put himself between Sherlock and the other person. That person was striding across the quiet street, and Sherlock relaxed, recognising the woman. He put one hand on John’s arm. “It’s okay.” Raising his voice, he greeted the new arrival. “Anthea.”

She nodded to him, ignoring John.

“So this is all Mycroft, then.” Sherlock asked, and the brunette nodded. “I assume he’ll clean this up?” When she nodded again, he waited until she turned away before asking, “ID?”

“Rupert James.” She replied before disappearing once more into the darkness.

“Wasn’t he…” John murmured.

“I had a date with him this morning.” Sherlock told John. “It did not end well, though I believe I took it better than he did.”

John chuckled, then chastised Sherlock. “This is a crime scene, now. We can’t be giggling at a crime scene.”

Sherlock snorted. “Bollocks. Mycroft will come and clean this up. Let’s go.” He grabbed John’s hand, more to get them moving than anything, but as they walked, John slipped his fingers between Sherlock’s, cementing their connection. They walked for a while, the silence comfortable, before Sherlock stopped.

“This is my flat.” He said, indicating 221 above.

“I’ll call you”- ” John started.

“You could come up-” Sherlock said at the same time.

They stared at each other for a long moment, Sherlock wondering if he’d misread the situation. Was John so eager to go home? As his brain processed his actions and John’s responses, it was all short circuited. John had leaned forward, caressing Sherlock’s face. Sherlock’s brain did not so much whirr to a halt as come to a screeching stop, smoking and shuddering. He felt his eyes close as John’s breath warmed his cheek, before soft lips settled over his. The new data was almost overwhelming, and when John lowered himself again, breaking the kiss, Sherlock let out a breath, not realising he’d been holding it in the first place.

“You’re going to need to learn how to breathe and kiss at the same time, you know.” John murmured. “Because I’d like to keep doing that for probably longer than you can hold your breath.”

Sherlock smiled at the kind, brave wondrous man looking at him. “I could be amenable to that.” He replied. “Would you like to come up to my flat and we could get started?”

THE END.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't like this ending? Go back and made a different choice and see where that takes you.


End file.
